


What Only You Provide

by BrideOfViolets



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: F/F, Narrative is centered around Catra and Adora, angst and fluff also make appearances, content warnings are at the head of each chap, just cause they left the horde doesn't mean they ain't got problems to work out, semi-continuous narrative, though the other two make appearances, you could call this a slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-09-30 08:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17220044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrideOfViolets/pseuds/BrideOfViolets
Summary: Started as prompt Fills for Catradoraweek 2018. All taking place within the same AU.When Adora finds a sword in the Whispering Woods, it does much more than show her visions. Convinced the Horde would shun or kill her for her nature, Adora convinces Catra to leave the Horde with her and together they make their life among the trees. With no home to return to and strange powers manifesting in the newly discovered princess, they look to each other to find a new purpose and create a place they can call home.





	1. Live Well, However You Can

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: Blood, Animal Death, Major Injury

            Catra waits for Adora near the fire, watching the woods. The trees of the Whispering Woods are never still for more than a moment. They shift, endlessly, and when you walk among them touching their bark and stepping over their roots you miss the subtlety of their movement. Only when you sit and watch and steal their stillness does it become visible. Eyes open and alert she tracks one gnarled oak that slowly drifts across the edge of their shelter. The trees do not move independently or move themselves, she learns. Their roots and branches twist and twirl and tug at each other, always moving, always shifting. She reminds herself that the woods told Adora that they would not hurt them. But it’s hard to feel relaxed when she cannot shake the feeling of eyes upon her back, judging.

            Not an unfamiliar feeling, but just as unwelcome here.

            Catra keeps herself entertained with little chores while she waits for Adora. Most days she is crafting, leather goods and small tools, and salvaging whatever scrap they retrieve from the ruins the woods bring her to. Their crafts grow, and each day she can feel little improvements stacking up. Infinitesimal but present, it feels good to hold and make something of her own after living so long with regulation equipment and manufactured food.

            The first lesson they learn of the forest is how to hunt, skin, and prepare an animal. Adora says that the woods urge them not to waste anything, and so they set to work finding uses for every part they take. They spear a boar, or rather, Adora stabs her sword—the broadside facing the sun—deep into its neck from her back where she lays out of breath. Its tusk has ripped through her clothes and struck her just under the ribs and Catra shakes as she tries to stop the flow of blood. She rips the cloth from Adora’s jacket and stuffs and tightens and ties it off and presses desperately with her hands. Then Adora’s hands are over hers, sword abandoned within the boar and her fingers clasp around her claws. She smiles at her, pained, shining with light at the edges of her lips. Her eyes begin to glow, sparking pale blue like lightning and Catra can smell the stinging scent of ozone around them.

            _So, what, the sword turned you into a princess?_

_No. I, uh, I think I always was._

They make catgut from the boar and string their bows with it. The woods call it that, catgut, or maybe Adora’s messing with her. It’s pliant, flexes enough when they need it and it serves as a decent stop-gap until they find a better alternative. Today they’ve set up hides to dry and meat to smoke and that means one of them has to be home to watch it the whole day and make sure something else in the woods doesn’t make off with their food. Catra takes to the woods’ lessons quickly and picks up the slack where Adora lacks the finesse to properly twine the rope or cut the meat or separate the fibers of plants. Adora, for all the perfection she exudes in military strategy and leadership, is quick in temper towards anything that demands so much of her time to master. Though she is no master either, the more time Catra spends with these the more Adora praises her work and to her shame she craves the attention.

            She stokes the fire, pushes down on a log and collapses it into cinders before replacing it with another. The heat of the fire is a difficult balance; the cut of the logs must be just so, they cannot be green wood, and she must be sure that the smoke is well out of the wind so the scent does not catch and draw attention to them.

            Catra often wonders why the trees let them take any wood from them. In the Horde, they were warned that the Whispering Woods was a place that served the princesses and she had always assumed it was like the battle simulation rooms and somewhere in the rebellion there was a place where the princesses could input commands and change the topography at their every whim. But that was not so, and Catra has seen first-hand that no one can control the woods, not even the princesses. In their first week they encounter a Horde search party that is looking for Adora—of that neither of them have any doubt—and two lost members of the rebellion, a princess and her companion. The search party is, time and time again, turned from their camp and forced to walk in endless circles. It isn’t until Catra and Adora uncovered the skiff they’d stolen, and left it for the Horde to find that the soldiers make to exit the woods. If not for Adora’s clumsiness. She trips, falling from the branch where they perched themselves, and in catching Adora and righting her stance Catra reveals herself to the soldiers. They run, Catra first and as far away from Adora as she could get. The soldiers follow firing shots at her with their stun-batons. One hits, and the electric shock brings her to her knees. By the time she recovers one of the soldiers is upon her, and she discovers something else about the woods. The trees of the Whispering Woods, in some twisted way, could be considered omnivores.

            Catra doesn’t let her thoughts linger long on what she saw in that moment. Only that she got away.

            The princess and her companion are a bit of a different story. They encounter the pair only a day after they find the sword and Adora, in her sweet and passionate speech, convinces Catra to leave with her.

            _I can’t go back, Catra._

_Why not? So, what, a sword turns you into an eight-foot tall princess ONCE and you just turn tail and run to the rebellion!?_

_Catra, you know the Horde would never let me come back like—like this! They wouldn’t let a princess whose been hiding in their ranks from the moment they took me in be a Force Captain!_

_We can convince them change their mind. Shadow Weaver already thinks your perfect so—_

_A perfect soldier isn’t a princess!_

_…Are you crying?_

_I can’t go back, Catra. But I’m not going to the rebellion. And wherever I go, I don’t want to go there without you. Please, Catra. Come with me?_

_…Okay. Fine. But you better know what you’re getting into, Adora._

Their first night is spent in the hollow of a dead tree, her head in Adora’s lap and the sword resting just outside and they wake to the shift of bark around them. The roots twist and twirl around the sword drawing it deep beneath the roots that cover the ground around them. The hollow twists its bark inwards and shuts out all of the light and for a moment Catra thinks the tree is about to eat them whole. And then the bark stills, Adora’s arms are tight around her shoulders and at the edge of her hearing there is movement in the underbrush. Two small knots open in the wood, and they can see the princess and her companion. The boy carries a bow and a little tablet, which he complains loudly about as they walk past them. Something about some “First Ones” technology and some massive spike in this area. The girl, so obviously a princess in her finery, waves off his complaints in clear outrage at their situation. In the Horde, they were taught princesses were powerful beings wielding magic that was far out of their control, and her temper tells Catra all she needs to do is get her angry and let that power self-destruct.

            _Hey! Watch where you point that thing!_

_Well, sorry I couldn’t predict that this thing shoots lasers!_

The rebels linger outside the tree for about a minute, fussing with the tablet. Adora’s arms around her shoulders tense, and Catra can feel her wrestling down the panic with little twitches in her hands and legs. Carefully, watching outside for a reaction to any sound, she weaves one hand between her body and Adora’s and over the other girl’s shoulder. Adora’s eyes find hers, but before she can question Catra’s actions the girl has her hand half-buried in her hair and scratching her retracted claws at the sensitive spot just behind Adora’s ear. A weakness they both share, though it is hard to say whose reaction is most pleasurable to her. She catches the briefest whimper in Adora’s sigh, but the other girl calms and relaxes her grip. Another minute or two passes, and the rebels leave them alone.

            The Whispering Woods cares for the princesses, and Adora is one of them now. But, maybe the woods like her and Adora a little more than the rebellion.

            Catra finishes the day’s work, and its not a moment sooner that she hears Adora approaching through the brush. She watches Adora’s frame come into view in the half shadow cast by the hung strips of jerky. The woods curl around her presence and a branch near Adora’s head curves up to avoid hitting her as she steps into the firelight. The sword is transformed, a trick she learned recently, into a large axe that is held over her shoulder. Her jacket, stained a rusty color on her left side, is open and loose around her waist and she can see even now the curious hiccup in her step that favors that side. In her other arm she the better half of a small tree, hefted in the same manner as the axe.

            _So, let’s think. If you’re a princess you’ve got to have the whole magic thing too, right?_

_I think so. Ever since we’ve been in the woods I’ve been hearing voices. I thought that was what they meant by “Whispering Woods”, cause, y’know, whispering. But with the sword I’m not so sure._

_Okay so you’re going crazy. That still fits with the whole “uncontrollable magics” thing. What else?_

_Well, even when I’m not transformed, I’ve been feeling stronger. And then there was the whole laser thing._

_That was the sword spiting lasers, not your hands. Not sure if you can take credit for that, Adora._

_True… Well, sometimes, I can hear and see better. And there’s times when I think I can sort of feel things around me, things I wouldn’t normally… There’s a hum, like around the old reactors near the scrapyard. But it’s everywhere._

_Damn. And just when I was hoping all your weird princess powers were going to make sense. Why couldn’t you be like that sparkle one? Who shoots the little sprinkles out of her hands and teleports?_

_I wish it was that easy. I get the feeling there’s something we’re missing, but I don’t know what._

Catra gets up as Adora lays down the tree at the edge of their camp. She turns, a soft smile on her face. Catra dips her hand under the flap of Adora’s jacket and wraps her arm around the small of her back. She leans her head in, rubs the side of her face up Adora’s neck, purring deeply in her chest.

            “Hey, Adora. I missed you.” She says. Adora’s arms are around her, hands resting at her waist and gently squeezing.

            “I missed you too. How was your day?” Catra smiles into her shoulder as her gentle squeezing turns to an impromptu massage that tickles the bottom of her spine.

            “Boring. You left me here alone all day, you know. There’s only so much gut to string out. A girl can get _real_ tired of that.”

            “I’m sorry you were bored,” her hands wander up her back, slipping beneath Catra’s shirt, “is there something I could do to make up for that?”

            “This is a good start,” she purrs, “but you could do that thing, you know, with the…”

            “You mean this?” Adora whispers, and one hand slips from Catra’s shirt and into her hair, scratching softly behind her ear.

            Catra purrs deeper, curling herself further into the embrace.

            “I’m glad you’re with me, Catra.”

            Catra doesn’t respond, but Adora must know. The Horde could never give her this. They could promote her, give privileges, put her in command, but nothing compared being in Adora’s arms. She belongs here, with Adora. And Adora belongs with her.


	2. Left in Ruins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Mention of blood and reference to an unseen dead body.  
> See end of chap for additional notes
> 
> Prompt 2: Firsts | Lasts

            Three weeks after Catra and Adora defect from the Horde the Whispering Woods leads them to a village coated in a thin layer of ash. All that falls to the Horde is consumed by the trees. The roots can pierce through anything if given enough time. Like a river, they find any and all cracks and fill and stretch and open and enter. Every ruin they find in the woods is nothing more than crumbling walls half-buried under their ceaseless advance. The woods remind her that this is how they expand, by taking the old wreckage of war and burying it deeper and deeper into the soil. With each they block another path to Bright Moon and take another of the world’s scars into its greenery.

            The Whispering Woods asks her to follow them, claiming that it is time that she saw what could no longer be hidden from her. Dread follows the words, making her feel ill with tension long before she see the first grey and black structure in the distance. They slow, walking between the spreading roots to see the span of it all. She notes how small the village seems. These burnt-out structures and toppled roofs are little more than the homes of those who lived in the village. The outskirts are bare of any defense. No perimeter fences. No guard towers. No installed weaponry. Nothing here is or was defensible.

            The first building Adora sees has an entire wall blown away, the edges of it blackened from the heat of what could only be the discharge of a laser cannon. To its left she spots what must have been a small hovel or perhaps a storage shed that was exploded outward, roof gone and the very bottoms of its walls were all that remained. Artillery. And with just a measuring stick she could find what class it was and how big the shell had been.

            Adora walks quickly out of the tree line and Catra follows, dashing up to her and dragging her into the bushes around the edge of the village.

            “What are you doing!” she hisses, “Did you even check to see if there was anybody still around?”

            Adora shrugs Catra’s hands from her shoulders. “There’s no one here besides us.”

            “How do you know that for sure?” she says, scanning the buildings around them.

            Adora brushes her hand against the leaves of the bush and they curl around her fingers, affectionate and gentle as the whispers fill her mind. She closes her eyes, shuts out the world for a moment and breaths in through the woods’ lungs.

            “The closest person to us is a mile away, headed away from here towards Bright Moon,” she says, without opening her eyes, “and the closest animals are only a few birds and squirrels. Catra, we are the only ones here. The woods doesn’t lie.”

            Catra growls, “I hate it when you do that. Fine. But we can’t stay for long.”

            The leaves slowly uncurl from around her finger tips and through her own eyes she inspects the damage. She approaches the larger building first. Looks into the collapsed wall, sees the exit hole on the other side. The shot cleaved some kind of furniture in half, leaving multiple drawers on the ground and one hanging by a wheel in the middle row. Clothes are strewn about on the ground, intermixed with bits of a shattered mirror that fell from the wall. There are two beds she can see on either side of the room and the covers are lightly tossed. She steps inside, careful of the shards and walks over to one of the beds. It is small, barely four feet on the long side. The covers are a light blue with swelling aquamarine waves that fold seamlessly into the cloth. She rubs the fabric between her finger and her thumb, grainy ash between the fibers.

            “Adora,” Catra calls from the hole in the wall, “come on. There’s nothing in here for us. We need to find whatever’s still useful in this place and go.”

            Adora balls up the cloth in her hands, and tries to wipe out some of the ash. Catra huffs and enters the room with her, stepping lightly around the glass.

            “Come on, Aodra,” she urges her, leaning her head into view, “that blanket’s filthy. Just leave it alone.”

            She meets Catra’s eyes. Her own are watering, she can feel the sting. And the way Catra’s face goes from hard to soft to hard means she can see it too.

            “Why would they do this, Catra?” the other girl doesn’t respond, unable to meet her gaze. “This is a civilian town. There’s no way they could’ve been a threat to the Horde. They don’t have any weapons here. It’s not a major trade route or part of any kind of supply chain. These people didn’t have anything to do with the war. This doesn’t make sense.”

            Catra crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the wall. “Since when did the Horde need a reason to blow something up?”

            “We always had a reason, Catra! Tanks and artillery of this caliber are strictly for use when confronted with armored enemy units or where siege tactics are necessary not for occupations.” Her voice carries a shrill note, “We don’t just blow up towns for fun! We were supposed to be brining order to Etheria not murdering innocent people!”

            “And how do you know that’s true?” Catra says, glaring, “Because Shadow Weaver told you so? Did you just believe _everything_ Shadow Weaver told us?”

            “Shadow Weaver was our mentor, Catra. She was teaching us the right way to—”

            “Shadow Weaver isn’t here, Adora!” Catra approaches, hands at her sides clenched and trembling, “and she was never teaching us the ‘right way’ to do anything. Of all people she’s probably the one who planned this attack in the first place.”

            Adora pulls the blanket to her chest, “She couldn’t have. I-I know she didn’t. I asked her and she said we would offer villages that couldn’t defend themselves a home in the Horde. They always say yes.”

            “She lied, Adora. She was lying to us from the very beginning…I thought you knew that.” Catra takes her face in one hand, forcing Adora to look her in face. “Did you never think about what might happen if someone said no the the Horde.”

            “They wouldn’t.” Her voice is steady, but she can no longer believe her words as she speaks.

            “Look around you, Adora. They did. And this is what they got.”

            Catra releases her, and it's as if her touch was the only thing keeping Adora on her feet. The moment her fingers break contact Adora falls to the ground, fighting back against the sickness welling in her throat. Catra spares her a glance before she turns, tail brushing against Adora's face as she walks out.

            “I’m going to take a look around. Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

            She isn’t sure how long she stays there on her knees clutching the ash covered blanket but by the time she looks up the sun is on its way towards the tree line on the other side of the village. She catches a glimpse of herself in a piece of shattered mirror. Her eyes are puffy and her cheeks are red but she did not cry. She couldn’t. To feel sorrow here would be a betrayal to all that she ever knew. This was the Horde’s work; the evidence was all around her but this couldn’t be what she was meant to do. This wasn’t what they trained for and it wasn’t what Adora trained for and Shadow Weaver would never let something like this happen.

            Right?

            She walks out of the building and makes her way further into the village with the blanket in hand. The damage is worse on the outskirts where the artillery hit. The central buildings were mostly intact though all of the walls were striped with black scorch marks from laser blasts. From the angle of entry, the size of the marks, and the partial disintegration she can infer the model of laser baton they used. Horde standard is for laser batons of a stun grade be used in cases where they are expected to be discharged at civilians, unarmed combatants, and their own personal. Those batons aren’t strong enough to disintegrate any organic matter, like those that would have made these marks on the walls. She studies the pattern for a moment. In the Horde, batons are typically fired in volleys when a squad is together and facing a unified enemy. They have a tight pattern, that accounts for aim and the movements of a target or group of targets to ensure that there is no escape from the volley. Should a soldier fall, the pattern changes to accommodate. She counts three complete patterns of the eight that are present on the side of one building.

            All the rest have gaps.

            Adora enters a medium sized building near the center of town. It is two stories tall, with a green tint to the walls. Above the door there is a sign of a swan with its wings outstretched and beak open wide. Below it in simple letters is written _Laughing Swan Inn_. The smell of rot reaches her nose just as she opens the door. She peaks her head in, holding her hand over her mouth and nose as she looks around the interior. Nothing inside but overturned chairs and shattered bar stools. The smell comes from a door to the left of the bar, and she spots a coppery stain peaking from underneath the door frame. She does not open it. She cannot open it.

            She looks behind the bar and finds a large book stashed near the register. It is a ledger of sorts, though the figures are strange to her. She does not know what it means for each of these names to be assigned a value though she assumes from the convention that it must be some form of debt that each person owes the inn. In the back she finds a list of addresses, which include the inn’s. This village is named Thaymor.

            Thaymor is a military stronghold for the rebellion, one of the few remaining gaps between the Horde and their inevitable victory over the rebellion.

            Thaymor is a civilian village on a road that will be swallowed by the Whispering Woods, far out of the way of the Horde’s quickest route to Brightmoon and the inn keeper of the Laughing Swan Inn dismissed the debts of two people and listed the reason as a simple act of good faith.

            She exits the Laughing Swan Inn, ledger in hand, knuckles white from the strain she places upon its spine. It does not take long for her to find Catra, who is on her way back to the ruined house where she took the blanket. Sensing her approach Catra turns, shifting the bag she holds over her shoulder.

            “I thought I told you to stay put, Adora. What’s with that book?”

            Adora thrusts the book at Catra, pages open to the very back and she points to the address of the inn. “Thaymor. This village is Thaymor.”

            Catra pushes the book aside, eyebrow cocked, “Yeah, and?”

            Adora steadies herself, bites into her lip to keep back the stinging in her eyes. “My first assignment-when Shadow Weaver promoted me to Force Captain-my first assignment was to destroy the rebel fortress Thaymor, Catra. This is Thaymor.”

            “Adora…” Catra says softly, setting the bag aside and all the fire that had filled her eyes in that ruined building is absent as she grips Adora’s arms. Adora realizes then that she is shaking.

            “I was going to lead this assault, Catra.” and she can no longer hold it all back. “This, all of this, Shadow Weaver wanted me to do this. She told me Thaymor was a _fortress_ Catra…. And she lied to me.”

            Catra says nothing as Adora collapses against her. They fall to their knees in the ruined streets of Thaymor and Adora sobs, deep and mournful into Catra’s shoulder. She chants, between the hiccups and the sobs, that she is sorry. And she is unsure if the words are for the people of Thaymor, Catra, or even herself. She is lost, utterly so, and for the first time she cannot see the way forward. But there is warmth in the arms around her. A gentle tug at her hair releases it from the tie and soft feeling of Catra’s fingers running through it. It is comforting, but it cannot take away the pain settling deep into her heart. Nothing ever will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know i said revision is for fools but that is because I am a fool.  
> Anyways, Thanks for the support everybody! I'm really glad y'all have been enjoying this. This manipulation of She Ra's setting has been swirling around in me brain for a while and putting it to paper has been a great experience.


	3. Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Content Warnings for this chapter.  
> Prompt: Seasons | Sun & Moon  
> This one is coming in a little late, sorry! It kinda spiraled out into a longer piece than I initially thought it would be.

            Adora has taken quickly to the practice of cutting down trees. Only the first two times had her axe gotten stuck and she apologized both times. The woods forgive her, though it scolds her carelessness. In time she will be strong enough to cleave trees of a decent size in no less than three swings. It is more her strength than her form that makes her believe she can achieve this and each tree gets her closer and closer. Every day the woods leads her to larger, taller, denser trees and every one of them pushes her strength and endurance to their limits. She pushes onwards, growls into the swings as the strain lights her arms aflame and the handle of the axe rubs new blisters into her calloused palms. Whenever she thinks she has found the very limit of her ability she looks deeper, presses herself farther, and takes and takes from herself. With each day her limit grows and she finds herself drawing less and less power from the sword. As she sits on the stump of a freshly fallen tree she wonders if it is like this for all of the other princesses. Perhaps, if she had trained from her youth in this way, would she already be strong enough to cut down these trees with ease? She can’t be sure, and when she asks the woods it gives no answer.

            She rests the axe against the side of the stump. She prefers to keep the sword in this form most days. It erases the inscriptions upon the face of the blade, written in a language she can read but not understand. As an axe, she can decide what lies on its face. And so, the axe becomes a canvas that she molds each morning into a new shape and design. Some days she will mold it into a list, written in the common language, of all the things she must do in the day and how much she needs to bring back before sundown. On others, she makes maps of the insides of trees and counts the rings one by one by one. Most days, and more often as she spends time away from home, she molds it into the likeness of Catra. It’s incomprehensible at first, but over time she improves. She is able to make her smile from memory, though she prefers the days when she wakes before Catra and can spend those early moments tracing her features in the dark.

            Adora takes the knife from her belt and begins to carve runes in the stump. They need the wood to build a cabin for the coming winter and for each tree they take from the woods they pay some kind of toll. On the southern side of the woods they must carve runes into the stumps and fill the lines with a paste made from blackberries mash and mastic. To what end, Adora is unsure, though the woods is pleased with their work and she takes pride in such simple praise. On the northern side, they face a more difficult challenge. For each tree they take they must give something to the villages that border the Whispering Woods. What they give is up to them, and need not always be something material. For the first tree they hunt a lone wolf that had been hunting too close to the home of a farmer, who the woods tell them is afraid it will come after her children. For the second they mend a two-foot-long length of fence upon the perimeter of a village, that had been damaged in a recent storm. Though the woods make no comment upon maintaining their secrecy, Catra insists. The less people are aware of their presence the less likely the Horde—or the rebellion—are to find them.

            Though they have been gone from the Horde for almost two months now, Adora cannot bring herself to consider turning to the rebellion. She knows they are their best option, in the long run. They can survive in the woods, hope to live out their lives in isolation as the war continues to burn the world around them. But there would come a time, sooner or later, that the Horde or the rebellion would push into the woods, and at that point there would be no hiding. The woods silence on the subject speaks to the truth of it. Catra and Adora will be always be welcome in the woods, but there will come a time when they have to make a choice one way or the other. It is inevitable.

            Adora finishes the runes and blows the sawdust from top of the stump. She places the knife in its leather sheath at her waist and begins to spread the sticky paste in the grooves she carved. The knife comes from Thaymor, and it is one of many tools they have retrieved from the deserted village. She keeps the mastic and the blackberries in pouches made from special cloth she found in a shop full of herbs and spices. The fragrant smell it once carried has faded, and by the time the first trees had taken root in the outskirts of the village it was gone. She finishes a line and wipes her sticky fingers in the grass before taking a chunk of mastic in hand and crushing it between her palms. She grinds it to a semi-fine powder over a large leaf and then takes several blackberries in hand and mashes them into the powdery base. It is, by far, a more pleasant mixture to smell than to feel.

            She finishes the runes and looks for the sun. It is just a few hours past mid-day, and the journey back home will take her several hours. If she leaves now, she could arrive before sun down. She takes the axe in hand looks out past the edge of woods and into the plains beyond. The southern border leads into Horde territory, an unruly expanse of jagged, flat rock with clear visibility for miles in any direction. The eastern side of the woods dip closer to the walls of the Horde’s capital, and so this far west the only indication of the crater is the orange glow against the distant black clouds that linger over the capital. In between here and the capital are number of forts, each connected through a series of supply chains. Those closest to the capital had armored monorail systems that carried supplies to and from the forts. Those further out had to be supplied by drone operated convoys. From where she stood, she could see the very edge of the walls of the closest fort, and the road leading to and from it. She takes the axe in hand. On one side is Catra, her face half-covered in the furs atop their bed, one visible ear peaking mountainous through the mess of her hair. She turns the axe over and the other side is blank.

            Adora walks the edge of the woods and traces a rough sketch of the terrain around the fort into its surface. They have food stores in the works, not all of the trees Adora brings back will be used for the frame of their cabin, though the amount of non-perishable foods available to them are small. The woods can provide some assistance, but no more than the advice of squirrels storing nuts or the wolves hunt in the winter time. If they miscalculate their stores, or they fall ill and are unable to hunt, it will be disastrous for them. They need options, and the Horde supply caravans carry many of the supplies they might need. In the last few weeks Adora has found two suitable forts they could attack, and devised strategies for both.

            The fort she sees now is only a few miles away from Thaymor, the closest of the three, and is the most likely of them to have been the staging point for the raid. She marks down the number of guard posts, lights, weapon installations, and what little she can see of their exterior security.

             She stays hidden in the woods as best she can make her way back the fallen tree. Preparing the tree for transport takes little time, and with some effort she is able to lift its full twenty-foot length onto her shoulder. Her shoulder is pulled tight by the weight and she places the axe in its loop so she can support it with her other hand. She grins, despite the pain. Adora could never have been _this_ in the Horde. Would never have been strong enough to smash boulders with her fists or carry massive, whole trees on her back for miles at a time. This limitless strength, for all that it made her the object she had been trained to destroy from her birth, it was exhilarating. There was attraction in this power, a magnetic force that kept her wanting to push it more and more, to see just how far she can take this and other budding powers at her disposal.

             Adora arrives home just as the sun is setting. Their home is dark as she approaches, the many tarps drawn over their tent deepening the darkness that creeps into their home. She must have missed Catra, who was set to go hunting this evening and would not return for at least a few hours. She carefully places the tree next to the stack they’ve made close by. The cabin’s foundation was completed last week, and they were well on their way to building up the walls. If they kept their pace the cabin would be finished well before the chill would become unbearable. She inspected the collection of rocks on one side, and the mortar they’d started on last week. It was a slow process, one that was quickly frustrating her. The consistency was never right, and no matter how long she spent mixing and mixing the mortar she could never get it to the point that the woods deemed passable for their fireplace. They would need it. Or they would need to find some kind of space heater for when the snows came and that would require trade or theft, neither of which where attractive options.

             From behind the stack of rocks, nestled between the first few beams of the cabin’s floor, she retrieves a hide wrap and a few pieces of pressed charcoal she’d found in an old storeroom in Thaymor. Adora starts a fire, grabs a few pieces of jerky and a handful of the fruits they’d foraged and sits on the bench they’d made next to their firepit. Inside the wrap there are multiple pages of blank white paper of varying thickness. Before she reformed the axe she used the thinner sheets to rub off etchings of whatever she placed upon its surface at the beginning of the day. She starts with the map, taking care to move lightly and keep the charcoal from smudging the finer details. She finishes quickly, and places it next to her on the bench before turning the axe over.

              The image of Catra is much harder to capture on paper and there is only so much the rubbing can do. She takes the outlines on thinner paper, tracing carefully with a light hand before setting the axe aside and transferring it onto a thicker piece. From their she free hands the illustration, adding the shadows and the tufts of short fur on her shoulder and the little markings along her arm. She spends the better part of ten minutes on her ear and the bit discolored hair below it. Adora’s never been sure how to describe the feeling she gets when she looks at Catra, especially like this. In the Horde, she would sometimes stay awake just long enough to watch Catra fall asleep. That was the only time she ever got see the other girl lower her defenses and—seeing her curled under her legs with her laying on her hands and the soft release of her eyebrows as she drifted off—it allowed her to relax as well. It was captivating, all consuming, and so much more profound now that they had left the Horde behind and she got see that side of Catra without fear of discovery. Rendering her to paper was a special thing, that warmed her more than the fire before her and let the distractions and worries of the day pass away into white noise.

              She didn’t hear Catra until her breath was on her ear. “This is kinda creepy, y’know.”

              Adora shrieks and clutches the papers to her chest. Catra cackles behind her, doubled over and clutching at her stomach.

              "Oh, wow!” she leans herself against the bench, cackles turned to giggles as she covers her mouth with one hand, “That was _so good_.”

             "Shut up!” Adora flushes, straightening the papers in her arms and putting them back in the wrap. “I was—you just caught me off guard!”

             “Oh, I know, Adora,” she grins, teeth flashing prettily in the firelight. As Adora closes up the wrap Catra reaches out with a hand toward it, “Hey! I wanted to see that!”

            Adora quickly shifts way from the girl, holding the wrap tight to her chest. “You saw plenty over my shoulder already!”

            “But I didn’t get to see that much,” she whines, “come on, Adora, please?” Catra pouts out her bottom lip, looking up at her through loose brown locks.

            Adora huffs, turning further in her seat from the other girl. She knows this game. Catra will pull that face, look all pitiful for about three seconds and because Adora just can’t stand to see Catra sad she’ll get whatever she wants. But it won’t work this time! The kitten eyes have no effect if she can’t see them happening.

            A moment passes, and Catra groans, “Fine. Whatever, if you don’t want to show me your secret collection you don’t have to.” Adora sighs in relief, and turns back to her just as there is a gentle rustling at her side. She stops dead when she sees what is in the other girl’s hands. The map. “I’ll just settle for this instead.”

            “Give me that!” she hisses, and tries to grab it out of her hands but Catra is too quick. The other girl is up and out of her seat in a flash and Adora’s closes on open air.

            Catra clicks her tonuge and holds the map up to the light. “Come on, Adora, I just wanna see what’s so special. I know we didn’t get art classes in the barracks but at least we…” Her expression clouds as she examines the paper in her hands.

            Adora shifts uncomfortably on the bench, kneading her fingers against her legs.

            “Why do you have a map of a Horde base?” Her tone is low, near growling. Adora looks up at her to see Catra glaring at her over the paper.

            “Catra…” she starts, and her voices breaks, “It’s not—”

            “Not what, Adora?” She turns the map around in her hands, pointing to the dotted lines across the area around the base’s exterior and the little notes that point out the various week points in the west wall. “Because this looks like a battle plan to me and I _know_ you aren’t planning to attack a Horde base. Right?” She spits the last word with a look of disappointment that has shame boiling deep in her gut.

            “It’s just a map, Catra. I wanted to know if it was a viable option for us during winter, that’s all.”

            “Well it’s not! We can’t take on a whole base by ourselves armed with sticks and rocks, Adora.” She motions to their shelter and the map crumples in her grasp. “We’ve barely even started making progress on an actual home in this place.”

            Adora takes the axe in hand, “I have a magic sword.” She says, and Catra hisses.

            “That you barely know how to use!” Adora gets up from the bench, eyes blazing, and drops the wrap to the ground beside her.

            “I know that! But I’m trying, Catra! I have powers, like it or not, and I can use them. And if we took their base? We’d have rations that could last us through winter, armor that could stand up to Horde weaponry. We wouldn’t have to be afraid of them anymore.”

            Catra growls. “And then they’ll send in a full attack force to look for us when they find out that we aren’t dead.”

            “I could transform. They can’t look for an eight-foot princess with a magic sword if they never see her again. You wouldn’t even have to come.” At her words Catra drops the map. Her eyes, so full of fire from the moment they’d started arguing, go cold as she gets into her face and hovers inches away from her nose.

            “What do you mean _I_ wouldn’t have to come.” Her words are ice, freezing down Adora’s back but she holds her ground.

            “You could stay here. I can go in alone, with my powers it wouldn’t be a problem to clear out the fortress.” As a princess, she could easily lift a tank, or crush the walls of the fort. It would be easy. It would be justice.

            “So, what, I’m just supposed to stay home and wait for you to come back cause I’m too weak to come with you? Like I’m some kind of pet?” Adora hears the fury in her words, and underneath, far below it all, there’s something like a blade sticking into her as she hears them. Sharp, stinging at her gut as she watches the twitch in Catra’s eye, and the ever so slight tremble of her lips.

            “Catra that isn’t what I meant.” The pain grows, and Catra grabs her collar, claws ripping into the fabric.

            “Isn’t it?” She whispers, “When you asked me to stay here with you do you know why I didn’t just knock you out and drag you back to Horde? It’s because when you asked you said wherever we go after then we go _together_. You’re good, Adora, almost as good as me. But even you can’t take on a whole fort by yourself, princess powers or not.” She lets go of her collar, and in her face Adora sees a mix of fury and hurt. “I’m not gonna let you get yourself killed, Adora. Whatever we do, we do together or not at all. And we are not going after that base.”

Catra turns away from her. She picks up a deer carcass, the fruits of her day’s labor. She lays it down by the fire and turns back to their tent. “Clean this up. I’m going to sleep.”

            The tent flap opens and closes and Adora doesn’t move from her spot. She turns, and stares into the fire. It crackles, the ends of the orange and yellow wisps curl and stretch higher and hotter into the night sky. She kneels down, picks up the hide wrap and sets it down on the bench at her side. She picks up the map of the Horde base. Despite Catra’s rough treatment it is mostly intact, and legible. She straightens it, runs her hands along the edges of the base’s walls and the patrol routes. In the Horde, her map making skills were one of her prized talents. When she wasn’t being pushed to move faster and faster in training, Shadow Weaver would instruct her on the proper way to map topography and place encampments on a page. This map in her hands, she wonders if Shadow Weaver would have praised her for the detail? She surrenders it to fire and watches the edges curl and blackened ends crumble.

When the map is no more, she drags the deer over to her place at the bench, takes out her knife, and gets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think of this as a thematic reference to the way in which The Last of Us used the seasons in its narrative. This is Winter, when things reach a new kind of low, and the struggles our heroes face are only getting harder. 
> 
> Thanks you all again for your kind words and support! Seeing your comments, Kudos and the like are all super cool and I love each and every one of them!


	4. Never Say Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Unrequited | Soulmates  
> No Content Warnings apply.

            The Whispering Woods is a quiet place in winter. Its leaves are all gone, buried under snowfall that reshapes the land into frozen sea of white waves. The swells range from a gentle roll toped with a soft ridge to tidal waves with endless blanks of powder white flakes. Catra slips into one such depth, not yet wary of the deceptive nature of the terrain and finds herself falling deep into endless white and cold. She thrashes and yowls and her claws rake endless rows as she tries find any sort of purchase. In the deep snow she cannot hear beyond her own voice, and for a single, terrible moment she realizes that if she’s buried too far Adora may never hear or find her. But her panic is cut short by a thunderclap from above her. The snow swirls, a sudden vortex of wind upends her and all of the snow around her. It howls in her ears like a storm, and sends her tumbling onto the ground below. She lands in the roots, caught in their shifting cradle and she looks up to see Adora standing in the settling snow. Her eyes are brighter than a lightning storm and the tips of her hair glow gold like the setting sun.

            The goddess is gone when she leans down to Catra’s side.

            “Are you hurt?” Her hands are on Catra before the words leave her mouth and she feels the side of her arm with a cautious squeeze. Catra fights back the swish of her tail when her other hand slides up the inside of her calf up to her knee. Heat sparks at the touch, a rolling thunder echoing from shock of her fingers touching her over the thick winter clothes. She tries to hold herself back as the mixture of a purr and a growl threatens to spill from her throat as Adora’s hand moves higher, testing the top of her thighs. “Nothing’s broken, right?”

            “I’m fine, Adora,” the words are backed with a rumble, “I didn’t even fall that far.” Adora shifts to her other leg and leans over her until she’s half on top of Catra and the other girl can feel the warmth radiating off of her. While the flush crawling up Catra’s neck couldn’t be explained away by magic powers there’s no denying the way that the heat seems to seek out the bruises on her shoulders and back. While Catra appreciates it chasing away the pain in her joints she wished it didn’t come with the added effect of setting every nerve in her body on fire at the mere thought of Adora’s hands on her. It was embarrassing enough that she couldn’t stop the purring and she didn’t need anything else pushing her to do something she _knows_ she’ll regret.

            Catra grabs Adora’s wrist before she makes it up to her knee and pushes her away. Adora pouts down at her while Catra gets up and brushes off the bits of leaves and dirt. She stretches her arms above her head and the worst she feels is a dull twinge in her shoulders.

            “See?” she says, walking around the roots, “I’m fine.”

            “I know. I was just scared when I saw you fall, and I didn’t really know what to do.” Adora replies, and has the good nature to appear sheepish while continuing to hover over Catra’s shoulder. She would find it flattering, if it didn’t also feel like Adora was treating her like she’d break a bone if she so much as stepped on a rock the wrong way. Worst of all the warmth was still there and at a distance she could feel the distinct strands of it curling around the top of her bicep. “I panicked.”

            Panic wasn’t an uncommon thing in Adora’s life. While, yes, she was a planner of extraordinary renown among the Horde but Catra had always known that behind her great big brain is a woman so saturated in anxiety that when push came to shove she turned quickly into a kind of single-minded panic that often ended in something being broken. And maybe in retrospect all of the broken Horde training equipment makes more sense with the whole princess thing. Especially in their training. While training with Adora was fun, the most fun they were ever allowed, sparring her was a thrill beyond all of that. Oh, Catra loved to win, sure, but there was nothing like seeing the fierce burn in Adora’s eyes during a fight, whether she was on the other side of the blade or not. When backed into a corner, Adora would cut Catra a grin full of teeth and follow it with an explosive display of power. For someone like Adora panic became a kind of limitless fuel that crushed plates of armor and snapped training staffs like they were twigs. That Catra had never reached the conclusion that magic might be involved could easily be explained by the well documented phenomena of being distracted by your best friend’s beefy arms.

            “Yeah, I noticed.” Catra kicks at the light layer of snow that’s collected at their feet. “A lot of panic, apparently.”

            “Yeah, I guess I punched it pretty hard, huh?” Oh.

            “You… punched it?” Adora flushes.

            “I did.” Catra looks up.

            “Alright, we’re going home.”

            “Wait,” Adora grabs her arm, “We still haven’t found any tracks. We have no idea where to hunt tomorrow.”

            She shakes her arm out of Adora’s grasp, “And I can guarantee we’re not gonna find anything after your _punch_ scared off anything within a mile of us. Let’s just go home, and we can come back tomorrow when there’s a chance we can find something.”

            Catra can see the conflict in her eyes but she sets her jaw, turns away and starts walking back to the cabin. She makes it all of four steps before Adora’s at her side, silently falling into step with her. At a glance, Adora looks more contemplative than put out by Catra’s words. A tension that she had not been aware of releases a little. She is mad, but only a little. The inconvenience of losing a half a day of hunting and track hurts, but behind her eyes its easy to return to the white prison she’d been trapped in minutes before. So fresh, the memory bites at her, and when her eyes open, she realizes that her claws are out and her fingers locked. She sucks in a breath, slow and through her teeth and with the exhale she feels the briefest touch of the warmth, back again on the back of her hand. Her claws relax as the inquisitive wisp rubs tiny circles into her thumb. Her tail whips at the back of Adora’s leg in a return of the caress and if she catches the little, surprised smile that graces Adora’s lips she doesn’t say anything.

            This kind of casual affection is new to them. New in a way that makes her apprehensive of how far she can push it. In the Horde, affection beyond the camaraderie of your squad was heavily discouraged, and often punished when superior officers became aware. A pat on the back or hand shake after sparring was acceptable but anything beyond that resulted in a withholding of rations. The rules were laxer when they were young, and Catra supposes that is more of a testament to their weaker bodies than any sort of sympathy for the young and confused kids looking for comfort.

            Adora had never been bothered by the lack of affection, at least not in front of Shadow Weaver. When their mentor was around, she became the truly ideal candidate, a soldier by birth who would never cry or seek any kind of comfort when she was injured. Shadow Weaver would never stop a training exercise just because someone was injured. But she might make it harder for the rest if the one injured was Adora, and take the girl aside after words to perfect her form. While the rest of them got to rest, and recover after training, more times than not Adora was required to stay behind and train and train and train. When she would get back to the group, she’d be better, her form tighter, eyes determined and sharp and never showing weakness for even a moment. It was only at night, when Catra was trying to sleep through the aches and pains of her own training miss-hap that she’d seen just how hard being the perfect soldier was on Adora. Sniffles, snotty breaths and hiccups, all from under a thick layer of blankets piled on her head to block the sound from waking the rest of their bunkmates.

             That night was just after their first taste of proper cadet training, and the first Catra would spend in the same bed as her. In the moment Catra wanted to reach down and hug the other girl, to hold her and soothe her cries like she had done for her when they were young. But that would only get them in more trouble if they got caught. It was safer for her to be curled under Adora’s legs, pressed against her just enough so she would know she was there and could easily escape back to her bunk if she heard the tell-tale whispers of Shadow Weavers tendrils.

             Almost four months out of the Horde and Catra is still the only one to initiate contact between them. Sure, Adora is getting more comfortable with her but it was never, ever enough. She wants more than just her arms wrapped around her waist or her hands in her hair. She doesn’t want to be best friends when finally, after all the time they spent in the Horde, they could be more than that. And she really wished Adora would want that too.

             When they get back to the Cabin Catra quickly sheds her winter gear and packs it away by the door. The interior of the cabin is a single room, though it is spacious enough for what little supplies they need. They have one bed against the back wall which they salvaged from a ruined house and inspected thoroughly for mites. Their fire place was against the west wall, built with stone and mortar. The mortar was a near thing, that was only made possible by Catra stepping in on the construction and taking over that part of their cabin. They have two tables, one of which they salvaged and the other was carved with left over wood. Their clothes are hung on rods installed on the east wall, and their weapons and equipment in draws underneath.

             Adora wastes no time in lighting in the fire, and Catra arranges the chairs around it. One of her favorite finds from Thaymor is a large polyester arm chair that is softer than anything she’s ever felt before. The beds in the barracks had a charm to their firmness, if you chose to think of it that way, but Catra vastly preferred to sink into the comfort on her chair’s cushions. As the fire began to catch, Catra gathered the ingredients for their dinner, another night of spiced deer stew. They cook and eat in relative silence, and Catra basks in the warm glow of the fire. She gets up from her perch and takes their dishes and washes them out with water outside. On her way back in she checks on the little shed they have behind the cabin and checks to make sure its rickety door remains shut. The sun is setting, and without windows she hadn’t caught the lengthening shadows across the trees around them. In twilight, the white snow turns blue truly looks like a gentle sea captured in a photograph.

             When she returns to the cabin, she finds Adora wrapped in a thick comforter, dozing lightly in her chair. Her face is lit in the incandescent glow, soft shadows under her chin defining the line of her jaw. Catra admires her as she closes the door and approaches quietly. In the short time they’ve been living in the woods Adora matured in subtle ways. Her face became more defined, regal in a way that displayed the gentle hold she had over the power just under her skin. Adora’s muscles were always toned, but now they are solid and powerful and sculpted. Catra steps over her, and the fire warms her back as she stares. As she is, Adora has never looked more like a princess and it is hard for her to conceive of this woman as the same girl who she comforted in bunk at night.

             She slips under the comforter and puts her legs over Adora’s while snaking her arms around her neck. Adora stirs at the intrusion, one hand griping the comforter and the other hovering over Catra’s shoulder. She starts to speak but Catra shushes her. _Let me have this_ , she wants to say. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t say anything because she’s never said anything and she’s never needed to say anything. And most of all she has to believe that, if she keeps saying nothing, that Adora won’t push her away.

             There are a few, strangled moments where she thinks Adora will pull away from her. She clenches her fingers, gripping at the fabric behind Adora’s head to keep herself from showing her fear. Adora shifts, moves her hips down and Catra slides further into her lap and she pulls the comforter up over them both. Catra sighs and the relief washes through her to end of her tail, flicking lightly from over the edge of the chair. Adora’s arm comes to rest around her waist and Catra buries herself into Adora’s neck. She can’t have what she really wants, but she can have this. And she tells herself its good enough, that it has to be good enough, even if it really, really isn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is coming pretty late and that's mostly due to my dissatisfaction with a lot of the first drafts. I'm still not completely satisfied with it, and its changed a lot from what I was first thinking for this prompt.   
> Of course, one of those drafts is probably going to become its own thing, apart from this AU, it's just that it's one of those drafts that needs its own space to breathe and I didn't have the time to do that for this prompt list.   
> I'm hoping to finish prompt 5 today, and get through the rest of the prompts before Tuesday or Wednesday, but we'll see.   
> Thanks for reading! And thanks again for all your support!


	5. Until it is Secret No Longer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts Habits & Fate  
> Content Warning: Reference to major injury  
> Longer note at end for a longer entry

            Adora wakes to the sound of the wind against their door and Catra sleeping on her arm. Far from the worst way to wake up, and for all that has changed in recent months she is glad that this has remained the same. As her eyes adjust she can make out only the fuzzy outline of Catra, the slope of her ears and the soft tangle of her hair. She traces the gentle curve of her jaw with her eyes and the freckles on her cheekbones. A gentle smile finds her lips as she follows Catra’s hair around the frame of her face to the errant strands running dark rivers between her closed eyelids. She stares, longer than she needs to, longer she should. She’s found herself doing this a lot, ever since Catra found her with her drawings. She still etches her face some mornings, and though Catra has told her she wouldn’t really mind if Adora wanted to sketch her when she was awake, she hasn’t worked up the nerve. There’s an admission in the act that Adora can’t name but is attached to such an overwhelming fear that the very thought brings to life a chill up her spine. It’s infuriating. Partially because each time she shies away from it, or anything else that could bring forth that feeling. And because she, despite that fear, there is such a deep longing within her that she feels so helpless to ignore. But without a name, she cannot be sure of how to answer it.

            Removing her arm from underneath Catra is an agonizing process, both in the difficulty not to wake her and the urge not to disturb something so beautiful as her sleeping face. Her hand is numb once it is free and she can feel the pinpricks of the noise as the blood flows back. From the bed she hears a rolling chirp and Catra’s head lifts from the bed, eyes closed. With her other hands Adora smooths back her hair before scratching at her scalp.

            “I’m headed out. Go back to sleep, Catra.” A loud purr is her only response, and Catra arches herself against Adora’s hand for a moment before returning to the bed.

            Since the completion of the cabin, her daily routine has changed dramatically. Without a larger project to focus on she threw herself into different tasks, training herself in multiple fields. She covered strength and endurance training in her trips to retrieve firewood, which were just as long of a journey in the snow as they were before. If anything, the retrieval of firewood was more problematic since the first snow fall and nearly all of the trees they’ve taken have come from the northern side. Catra and her became more frequent visitors to the villages surrounding the Whispering Woods in the last few months as a result. And with turn of the year behind them and the promise of three more full months of winter it they are due for a few more trips.

            Her martial training has turned to a balance between practicing and inventing moves with the various weapons she can transform the sword into. She pours herself into the staff the most, summoning one with two points that she can wield in the same manner as the batons they used for practice back at the Horde. Catra helps, where she can, and no mater how much stronger Adora gets she cannot hope to master the speed and agility of Catra. Adora has a much harder time practicing with the sword in its natural state. The blade is long and heavy, and though with her strength she can easily wield it in one hand she cannot decide if it feels more comfortable in either style. The Horde had no use for swords, and it is an unknown territory that brings frequent frustration.

            She delights most, however, in the practice of drawing. After a life lived in martial practice she is terribly want for a creative outlet. It is relaxing in many ways, and is an easier fulfillment to judge than sword play or her physical strength. The improvement is tangible and though she has to resist the urge to critique herself on her craft she finds a thorough enjoyment in the task. As she turns to drawing more and more in her spare time her subjects grow from Catra’s sleeping form to the area around them. She draws the cabin from several angles and tries to capture the feeling of living within it. The simplicity of their living is difficult to portray in a way that satisfies her, and her attempts ultimately center around the implements she finds them using the most. She has a dozen drawings of their utensils, their bows, and the two chairs they keep by the fire place.

            Adora puts on her winter gear at slow pace, taking care not to disturb Catra any further than necessary. In the half of a year since they left the Horde her old uniform and jacket are no longer suitable for her to wear. Her musculature is changed, her shoulders broader for the extra muscle and her arms thicker. Thus, the tight uniform shirt and jacket both are unwearable, seams worn down to bits by her growth spurt, never mind the blood that stained them both when she was gored by a boar’s tusk in their first month. She now wears a combination of clothing they have found in ruined villages and that which they made themselves. The simple, but thick trousers fit her nicely and their dark color matches well with the plaid and flannel designs of the shirts they found. She’s taken to wearing a coat made a mixture of deerskin and the fleece they got from a few trapped sheep deep in the woods. The fit is loose, intentionally so given her recent growth, and the ends of the hem reach down to her mid-thigh and are cut of by a cord tied around her waist. An elegant fashions statement, it is not, but it is warm all the same.

            She secures the sword to her pack with a few loops around the cross guard. Though malleable in its other forms, the sword stubbornly refuses alterations to its natural state, which has only made transporting it more troublesome. The blade is sharp enough to cut with the barest touch and no stone, metal, or otherwise has been able to so much as scratch or dull the blade. Their attempts to make a sheath for it have been unwieldly at their best, and a terrible danger to Adora’s fingers at their worst. Adora would rather carry it in any other form, but, for now, she needs the sword.

            She opens the heavy curtain they hung around the door frame and steps inside before opening the door to prevent the cold draft from entering the cabin. As it continued to get colder the need to properly seal the cabin from the elements became more and more pressing. Though the wood had been tightly slotted together, the aging and settling of the wood introduced gabs that had to be stopped up, and their door had to be replaced twice as the frame changed shape and it no longer sealed the frame. The curtain had been the latest of their additions, preventing all of the heat in their home from escaping each time they opened the door. A welcome and useful addition, borne of a friendship they made only recently.

            Completing the rest of her gear with a knitted cap and thick boots, she opens the door and braces herself. The blast of air cuts a deep chill into her, and she quickly exits and seals the door behind her. The woods around their home is quiet today, besides the wind. Not many creatures could be found stirring so deep in the Whispering Woods these days, and it meant keeping their food stores secure all the more important. Every hunt counted, and every bit that they could save was another day they could stay in the safety of their home.

            Today she walks the nearly two-mile journey to Madame Razz’s hut. Finding the old woman was chance; Adora was stalking a deer she’d wounded and followed it for more than a mile out of her way into the eastern woods, an are Catra and Adora have long tried to avoid for its proximity to the Horde. Never mind the visions the woods send her of monsters, great beasts with large bodies that glow blue under their grey carapaces, and of a tall figure standing ominously before massive spikes of crystal. Though she asks after the name of these creatures and the figure she is shown, the woods refuse to answer. They are in the habit of doing so whenever Adora asks questions like those. Whether or not they know the real answer, she can’t be certain. But there is an unmistakable tension that follows the asking that she can feel echo throughout all of the woods.

            None of that followed Madame Razz. The woods tell Adora little of the old woman, though it is not a willful denial so much as a lack of knowledge. The trees here are old, yes, but they know the woman to be much, much older and stranger than them. Still, the Whispering Woods asks her to take care of old Madame Razz, as more of a favor to the woods than any tangible reward. While Adora is willing to humor the woods, Catra proves hesitant, at least until Madame Razz begins to teach them useful little things. Their winter clothes, sealant for their cabin’s walls, even the curtain that blocks the breeze. All of these they learn make from Madame Razz and Adora notices a growing respect in the way Catra regards the old woman.

            And one day, on her way over to Madame Razz, she is delighted—and a bit disturbed—to hear from the woods that some kind soul had gathered up a couple of squirrels and left them wrapped and beheaded on the old woman’s window sill. It was hard to tell if Madame Razz was thankful or not, though Adora swore she could see a gleam of pride in Catra’s eye when she next saw her.

            Before too long she arrives. The old woman’s hut is a strange, squat thing nestled under the roots of a large tree. The walls and top of it are made from thin, porous mushrooms with flat tops just below Adora’s head. The roof is a single purple mushroom top put askance atop the walls and the roots of the large tree behind dig into it from below like ivy. There is only one door, or rather, curtain that leads into the hut and another curtain is hung inside the window frame to its left, swinging freely in the breeze. It must be magic that keeps this place warm, or so Adora reasons. The air on the inside of the hut flows freely outward yet the hut is never, ever too cold on the inside. And when she focuses, closes her eyes and quiets herself she can feel the hum concentrating in a heavy vibrato around the hut and the old woman, singing in concert with the woods itself.

            When she arrives, Madame Razz is up and about inside, curtain pulled back while she gathers her basket and broom. With the hood of her large purple robe pulled over her hair paired with her large bifocals she looks like a large purple beetle scurrying about with quick, hurried motions. As Adora nears the hut she calls out, moving her pack so that the sword is visible. Madame Razz’s face lights up immediately from under the hood, and she waves back eagerly.

            “Oh hello, Mara! You’re just in time!” She is always just in time. Just in time for tea, just in time to help Madame Razz pick up her cauldron, just in time to drive away the illusive family of skunks that settled in the roots of Madame Razz’s tree. She is also always Mara, a name that means nothing to her, and another subject that the Whispering Woods refuse to comment on.

            “Just in time for what, Madame Razz?” She asks, stepping in to the warm, dry hut.

            The old woman smiles, shoving a bouquet of soft white flowers into Adora’s arms, “Just in time to help me take these flowers to my friends! They’ve been waiting all year for these to bloom, Mara, you should know this.”

            She examines one flower from the bouquet, noting the way the bulb droops down towards the ground. “And why are your friends waiting for these, exactly?”

            Madame Razz scoffs, drawing her broom to her chest while she shovels more bouquets into her basket, “Mara, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten? They’re more your friends than mine.”

            “I’m afraid I have,” she says. The insistence of Madame Razz of her knowing things she does not know has lost its novelty over the last two months, and she’s long since learned its more productive to play along than try and correct the old woman. “A bad habit. Could you remind me?”

            Madame Razz thrusts the basket into her arms, eyes wide and grinning, “They’re singers! Good singers, with songs and choruses that could charm the world over. And oh,” she gasps, “when they _sang_. You could see the stars, oh they are so beautiful. You should bring your girlfriend!”

            Adora squints, “Girlfriend?”

            “Yes, the one who purrs,” Madame Razz squints back at her, “don’t tell me you forgot about her, too?”

            “No!” she waves her hand, “I didn’t forget Catra, no way, I just—well….”

            Madame Razz stares.

             “…I just. Don’t know what a ‘girlfriend’ is…” Adora flushes, one hand at the back of her neck.

            Madame Razz shakes her head, “Oh, Mara, you can’t be this forgetful. At least not until you’re my age!” She grabs her broom and the basket full of bouquets and makes for the door.

            “Well, I won’t forget if you tell me!” Adora says, and closes the curtain behind her as she steps out of the hut, “I promise I’ll do my best to remember this time.” She wonders if Mara—if she even existed—had ever made the same promise to Madame Razz.

            “That’s what you said about our berry picking! And you never came!” the old woman chides her and the pace she sets into the woods is quick, such that Adora rushes to catch up to her.

            “And I apologized!” She had. In their first meeting Madame Razz was irate, and slapped her with her broom for leaving her alone. And sure, she never actually made those plans, but that hadn’t stopped Madame Razz from giving her a stern talking to.

            Madame Razz hums in response, “Perhaps you should your friend.”

            “I’m sure she knows but if you could just tell me anyways?”

            The old woman ignores her in favor of inspecting the exposed root of a tree with the end of her broom, brushing away the snow. “Do you remember the way, broom?” she whispers to it, and holds her ear close for a moment.

            “Madame Razz? Did you—” she is cut off by a wrinkly hand poking out from beneath her robe.

            “Quiet now, Mara. I have to think.” The old woman leans close to her broom, and scans the horizon for a moment. Through the bifocals Adora can see the strain of her eyes against the large lenses as she stares out into the distance, intent upon surveying the landscape. She comes to rest facing the south east, and startles when the root she was inspecting suddenly wraps itself around her broom.

            “Let go of broom!” she says, smacking the root. Adora’s hand goes to her sword, but she does not draw it. Between the woods and the old woman, she is unsure of what to do. Never, in all of winter, has she seen the woods act like this towards the old woman. She takes her hand off the sword and puts in on the trunk of a tree, drawing deep. The woods respond with fear, fear for her, for Madame Razz, and the path she was to walk. She tries to soothe their fear, assuring them of her training, of her strength and ability. The woods calm, in time, and the root releases the broom. Madame Razz smacks it once again, grousing.

            “And don’t you do that to broom again!” she says, straightening her hood and hugging the broom to her chest.

            “What was that about?” Adora asks. Madame Razz sets off again at a brisk pace, shoulders hunched.

            “Oh, that’s just the way of the woods. They’ve always been afraid of this place.”

            “Which place?” she says, “I’m confused. And you never told me what a girlfriend was.”

            Madame Razz smiles, wide and toothy, “Yes, yes, that can wait till later. We’re almost there!”

            They walk and the woods become denser and denser around them. Even with leaves stripped their trunks retain their thick and knotted frames and Adora can feel the tension rolling off of them. The difference between these trees and those around their cabin is palpable through the whispers, spoken at once and far too low to hear individually as they become a thin layer of white noise. She walks, mindful of their roots in the snow, and tries to ease the tension that begins to mount within her. A strand of _something_ , nearly imperceptible at first begins to take root in her chest and spreads thickly. It tugs, light at first but getting stronger with each beat of her heart as if it is a pulsing, living thing. Which each step they take, they get closer and closer and she feels the strand pulling her towards something. She holds her hand over it, her fingers shake. It isn’t painful, no more than an uncomfortable tingling that boarders just on the edge. Like static, it fizzles invisibly, sparking against her fingers and then the trees and then Madame Razz but the old woman doesn’t react to its presence.  She only smiles wider and her eyes begin to show just a hint of something at their edges as they draw closer.

            When they step out of the trees into the clearing the first thing she sees is the single, massive spire of crystal in the very center of clearing. It towers, not so tall that it could be seen from afar and none of highest branches in the woods touch it. A perfect circle of trees surrounds the spire, the edges reaching the smaller spires around her height that stand just before it. All are covered in a thick layer of dead things, moss and vines that snuck their ways into the grooves and cracks in the crystal faces of the spires. The roots of the nearest trees are turned away from the base of each spire, as if repelled by the presence of the crystal. A moment’s pause and she can see the way the roots are all subtly roiling and writhing at the very edge of the spires.

            With not a moment of hesitation Madame Razz enters the clearing and sets her basket down by the closest spire. Adora approaches, the sword drawn in one hand and lays the other basket down by the old woman. She turns, examining all of the spires and their storied faces. On each, she can make out only the beginnings of letters, short phrases here and there. They speak of many things and from the fragments she can only piece together that they all seem to form a story, unique to each pillar, but all working together to tell one complete story.

            “What is this place?” she asks aloud.

            “It’s yours, Mara!” The old woman says, placing the bouquets on strings and winding them around the spire, “This place was always special to you. You showed it to me before your left, when we made the plans to pick berries!” she cackles, tying off the string in her hands, “but we’ll have to wait until next summer for that.”

            “I brought you here?” Ludicrous, yet here she was. And this place felt so, so familiar in ways there were no words that felt adequate to describe. Like a dream forgotten upon waking, and only the sensation remains.

            “Of course, no one else would have known how to find it.”

            “What do you mean, no one else could find this place?” Madame Razz finishes at the first spire and goes to the next, taking a cord from within her robe and twisting it over and over until its length more than doubled.

            “A place like this can hide itself, cleverly, and if you don’t know where to look ,you’ll be walking circles for days. You should know this, Mara. You haven’t hit your head, have you?”

            “Not for a while…” Adora mumbles as she takes a step towards the central spire. The script along the sides of the spire by far is the most complex, and the most broken. In columns across each face she can see paragraphs of lines. Written in circular prose are stories whose hearts have been eaten by the passing seasons. She touches the spire, feels the grooves of each word. Most lead up, strictly defined in their column. And others lead at an angle, off set towards the center of the spire before her towards a door made of crystal. It is sealed shut, with a single word etched upon its face.

            “Eternia.” She speaks without thought and light fills the word on the crystal. The light travels up, through the words and around the curve of the door and slowly it pulls apart and disappears into the wall. Beyond there is a hallway made of polished crystal in light magenta hues, lit only by the daylight coming in from the door way. She takes a step forward, peeking into the darkness.

            The sword at her side begins to glow. The feeling in her chest insistent, alive with an electric pulse. Like a heartbeat that hovers just above her own.

            Madame Razz peeks over her shoulder, “Are you going in, Mara?”

            She looks back at her. There is a possibility this is a trap. The woods are scared of this place, and they often have good reason for their notions. But this tugging in her chest is joined to all the questions the woods refused to answer, some part of her is sure of it. Surer than anything that she _must_ go in.

            “Will you be back for the singing, Mara?” asks the old woman. 

            “I plan to.” she says, “just wait for me.”

            She enters and the door slams shut at her heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya. So, now that Catradora week is officially over I'm letting myself relax a touch with how quickly I'm pushing myself to push out the prompts. For the first four I've only really given them a cursory copyedit to save time, which isn't great for catching errors. For the next few I'll be taking a little more time to look at the copy before posting, so that may delay things a touch. I'll also be doing deeper copy edits for the first four, which will be updated when I post the next part of this, most likely around Thurs or Friday night.  
> Also, I've kind of melded the prompts for day 5,6, and 7 together into a single narrative. Not sure if the next part will be covering both days 6&7, but this entry is technically part one of two. Part two will be from Catra's perspective, which was planned for prompts 6&7 anyways.  
> The references to Madame Razz as "the old woman" are a bit of a reference to the novel "The Swan Book", specifically for the way the narrator refers to the character of Belladonna, on old women who is one of the survivors of the Climate Change Wars, and represents a culture that has become dead to the world she lives in. It's a good book if you like a pretty bleak take on dystopian future lit.  
> I've also elected to refer to the woods in a mixture of the neutral they as kind of a play on the simultaneous plural and singular identity they have in this fic. Gonna fix that in earlier parts when i update the others.  
> And thanks again for commenting, Kudos-ing, and the like! I love y'all.


	6. Fear of Discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts Habits & Fate  
> Content Warning for Blood and Graphic Depictions of Violence

         Catra wakes soon after Adora leaves in the morning. Lounging in the heat she leaves behind; her morning is off to a good start. In winter, her skills in hunting are especially important and where Adora’s schedule is full of regulation and self-imposed mandates, Catra’s is much, much more relaxed. She stays in the heat of their blankets for almost an hour, basking, before she reluctantly rises from the bed. The wood panels of their floor are cold against her feet, despite the special knitted socks she made for herself. In winter, it is far too cold for her to walk barefoot, and her lack of a winter coat forces her to adapt their clothing to her needs.

         She eats a simple breakfast, and gets her gear on for the hunt. In the cold, she abandons her Horde uniform for the comfort of a woolen sweater over the thin shirts they recovered from Thaymor. Simple trousers, thick enough for the cold but thin enough for her to move. She’s cut a button hole for her tail into almost every pair of pants they own, even those she never wears. At first because, someday, she might have to wear them. And when that proved untrue, she continued if only to see that cute crease in Adora’s brow when she accidentally threaded her belt into the seat of her pants. She wears a similar coat to Adora’s own deerskin, though hers has a lighter pattern overall and is lined with white fur. The lighter the better, in winter, as her own coat offers no camouflage against the snow.

         She straps her quiver and bow onto her pack, tightly securing it through the loops. She would have to travel far to find anything today. As of recently, decent game was becoming harder and harder to find near their cabin, and it has been almost a week since they had anything besides squirrel stew in their stomachs. She pulls on her gloves, and her hand traces over the red mask sitting next to them. It’s been months since she last wore it, a present from Adora that was found in the scrapyards outside the barracks when Catra’s hair caused her to trip during training. The metal is too cold to wear in winter, and besides that, she feels an odd mix of nostalgia and contempt for it. It is the first gift she was ever given, but one she only needed because of the threat of another beating if she failed to perform. Catra slings the pack over her shoulder, and sets off into the morning chill.

         She finds the trail of a herd of deer in the early afternoon, and heads south to track them. Some trails are easier to find in winter. Deer, foxes, and the precious few other animals that haven’t already fled the woods all make more visible trails in the standing white snow. Catra’s trail is no different and she must make her path harder to track when she returns to the cabin with a kill. She suspects the woods are helping her, disappearing her tracks in the night after she returns home. Despite their help and the soothing of Adora’s arms around her each night she still suffers little bouts of paranoia. A flash of red is all it takes or a rumbling sound like tank treads. Her hair stands on end in these moments, teeth clench, and her claws dig deep enough to prick at her palms. It passes, in time, but she watches the shadows closer after each moment. Careful of what might be in them. Adora’s says she’s seeing things. But Catra knows better.

         A mile from their home she finds a row of tracks distinctly unlike any she’s seen in the woods before. They’re off her path. The deer are heading to sheltered areas to rest from feeding in the shallower banks near the southern border and are making their way further in to the woods to hunker down for a few days to conserve their energy. She’s about to follow them deeper into the woods when she spots the parallel lines of a sled and the deep footfalls in its wake. Each track was deep, uniform, and orderly. Moving northward, not in line with the deer at all, seemingly pointed directly towards the northern edge of the woods. This stretch of the Whispering Woods is thinner than others and it’s only a few more miles to the northern border from here. She observers the sides of the tracks, two lines as if it were just a pair walking but none of the tracks have clean sides to them. They’re all a touch too wide, and the tread marks below them are all jumbled with a mishmash of the same tread pattern. Horde regulation, parallel lines around a long oval in the center. A small company, with at least enough sense to try and hide their numbers.

         It isn’t unheard of to send a scouting mission into the Whispering Woods in the winter. From what she overheard from those on active duty in the Horde, these missions were often sent out to establish a route through the woods that could be expanded over time. The goal isn’t just to reach the other side of the woods, but to also take stock of the terrain along the way. The Horde longs for a way across the Whispering Woods and their lethargy in winter makes for an easier target. The longer she thinks about it the more she is surprised it took them this long to send a team on this route. An aerial view surely reveals that this stretch of woods is the thinnest of all. Beyond that, what of their cabin? Could this scouting mission have an ulterior motive, and be sent here to look for the residents of an unknown structure that appeared in the middle of the woods? The possibilities haunt her, and the fear rises like a steady beat of drums filling her ears.

         Her claws cut through the ends of her gloves before she realizes they’ve begun to unsheathe. She observes their points, the curvature of their ends and the sharpness they retain. Catra hasn’t used them against anything that wasn’t wood in a long while. They’re still sharp. And more than durable enough to pierce through Horde regulation armor.

         Catra’s pace along their trail is steady. She locks away her fear as she walks, stuffs it as far down into her chest as she can until nothing is left where it once occupied. She cannot be delayed, for every moment they get a closer to finding her home.

         Catching up to them takes her only an hour, and she sights them long before they would have a chance to notice her. Five of them, walking in formation at a slow pace, dragging a sled full of supplies in the middle of their number. She stalks them, keeping herself at a distance. The woods are cooperating with her. She can feel it in the bark of the trees, giving subtly to her touch and bending every so slightly to hide her form. They will never help her hunt animals, and they tell Adora it is because they must learn to hunt such creatures without aid. But the Horde are an exception. These scouts are the enemy, through and through, and there will be nothing held back when the moment comes.

         The scouts stop at the crest of a large bank in a thicker part of the woods. The lead scout signals to the others behind them to take positions. They’ve spotted something further up the path. She reads their non-verbal commands, watches how they fan out to cover their angles and one of them drags the sled behind a snow bank and covers it in a white tarp. Their distraction gives her the opportunity to get closer, and she makes her way foot by foot as they set themselves. Whether the scouts’ ambush is successful or not matters little, so long as she can compromise their supplies, and without them these scouts will never see the outside of these woods. Starvation, the cold, or Catra herself. The only options she can afford to give them must all end in death.

         As she nears the supplies the scouts arrange themselves in a haphazard “U” around a narrow point of the path ahead. From here she can see them all, ducking behind trees and hiding themselves in the snow. It’s effective enough camouflage, so long as their prey is only coming from one angle. This far up the bank she cannot see who the leader is tracking, but they are at the top of the formation and all the scouts are focused on their position for the time being. She makes her way to their supplies and carefully opens the tarp. They have rations enough to last a week, consisting of a burner and cup with several packages of tasteless soup and dried nuts and berries in little packages. She slashes the wires connecting the burner’s base to its fuel, and punctures holes in all the packages so that the contents spill and mix into a soggy mess. They have a surplus of tents, enough to fit six scouts comfortably and Catra makes short work of ripping out the corners and tearing large holes in the canvas with her carving knife. It’s slow, agonizing work to keep it silent, but she manages it when a gust of wind begins to howl around them, louder and louder as its pace quickens.

         Just as she is stepping away and lowering the tarp she feels something moving near her boot. She jumps, claws outstretched but stops short when she sees that it is only the root of a tree, snaking subtly out of the snow. It perks up, almost like a snake, and taps at her foot before pointing towards the path in front of the scouts. She looks over, sees all the scouts still locked in formation, but now their prey is in sight. Two figures, huddles around a small device in the hands of the taller one are making their way down the path with the wind at their backs. Under their hoods Catra can just make out the purple-pink ends of the shorter one’s hair and the dark skin of the taller one. It takes her a moment, but recognition slowly sets in alongside a tight coil threading through her stomach.

         The princess and her companion. The very same that had almost found her and Adora in the hollow tree they slept in on their first night in the woods. She looks closer and she can see the familiar flourishes of bright moon fashion about them and the bow upon the boy’s back. A _princess_ of all things for Horde scouts to encounter this far into the woods, in the instant she sees the princesses hood fly back and spots her familiar, glittery face she wants to scream in frustration. Never mind a scouting mission, if they caught a princess that would mean Horde and Rebellion soldiers alike would be crawling all over the woods in just a few hours. A growl rises in her throat, thankfully lost to the wind and she paces once, claws extended and flexing as she frantically tries to come up with a plan.

         The opportunity to do so, however, is taken from her as the leader motions for their troops to ready themselves. The princess and the boy are almost in the center of them. Catra no longer has time to plan her next movement. Impulse is all she has, and in the moment, she stalks forward and draws the knife from her belt.

         Catra has little time to check how heavily armed the soldiers are. Two of them hold ranged stun batons, likely set to their lower capacity to subdue the princess and her companion. The other three are armed with double-side stun spears, close ranged weapons much like the staffs she used in training. The closest soldier to her is holding one of the batons, aimed at the boy who has his back turned to the solider while he tries to fix the princess’s hood. She stalks up quickly, the knife held tight in her right hand and pounces onto the scout. They yelp, stun baton firing off into the air as her weight impacts their side. She twists as the scout impacts the tree, thrusting the knife up and into the gap between their chest armor and helmet and into what she hopes is their shoulder. There is a momentary struggle, hands clutching at her wrists and she is thrown off them. She scrambles to her feet and is dimly aware of the sounds of baton fire over the wind to her left before she sees another scout is bearing down on her with spear.

         She throws herself towards the baton and her claws scarp its edges just as the spear impacts her side. She isn’t hurt by the impact so much as she is startled, whipping around to try and catch it as it swings up to meet her chest. The impact hits low, knocking out her breath and she doubles over onto her hands and knees. From between her loose bangs she barely catches sight of the scout’s boot before it impacts her face. She falls to her stomach, teeth bared and seething at the pain blossoming from her nose as she collects herself the ground. There’s movement to her right, and instinct tells her there’s going to be another strike to her back any second now but the baton is just within reach. In flipping herself over she sees for an instant the scout with the spear raised high and then convulsing as the bolt from the stun baton strikes them in the chest. She scrambles to her feet, pausing only to let the baton’s energy run its course before digging her fingers into the crux of the scout’s elbow.

         They cry out, and in her other hand she is able to easily wrest the spear from their grasp. With a twist of her waist she swings the spear down and strikes the scout’s shoulder, resting it there as she activates it. The energy arcs over the scout’s form for a moment before they slump over, unconscious.

         Catra turns, spots the princess and the boy on the other side of the path. They have the leader of the scouts pinned against a tree’s roots with arrows, and the other is being swiftly tag teamed by the duo as the boy uses his bow to choke out the scout while the princess punches them in the gut. A moment’s rest is all she gets before the last scout is upon her, swinging wildly towards her head and screaming in rage. As the spear’s crackling swings over her she moves, training taking her through the motion and the spear in her hands jabs at the scout’s throat just hard enough to startle them. They freeze, a hand coming to their throat and in that moment, she swings again with the spear active, striking them in the back. They fall, limp and twitching for a moment. And then they are still.

         As the fighting dulls Catra tries to calm herself. She is panting, breath visible in the cold air and terribly labored. There’s blood dripping from her nose, and when she goes to wipe it with her sleeve the she finds her grip on the spear is hard to loosen. The princess and the boy step around the scouts’ unconscious forms and begin to measure out lengths of rope. She watches, for a moment, still trying calm herself but before she can she is walking towards them.

         “Stop.” Catra says, and her voice, at least, is still strong.

         The boy jolts, and the princess turns to her with a snap.

         “What—” the princess starts and Catra cuts her off with a hand.

         “Just watch.” Catra says. They look to the scouts and see the roots of the trees emerging from the snow. The tips of each root wave in the air before curling over the bodies of the scouts like ivy, invading their armor and thick coats, digging deep and pulling them down into the cold and white. Catra looks back to the three she fought, and the trees are pulling them down too. A root tugs at the spear in her hand. She lets go, and the root quickly drags it below the snow, the very tip of it disappearing in a gentle cascade of white flakes. In its place the roots lift her knife, retrieved from the scout’s body and one of the roots gently wipes the blood from the blade. Too much blood. She must have missed.

         The princess and the boy are staring at her. Catra tries to still her hand as she shakily takes the knife. In the corner of her eye she can see their faces as they watch, a near unreadable mixture of discomfort, some dawning horror as they realize what the woods is doing, and fear. Fear for her, or of her, she doesn’t know. But it could be useful either way.

         And then the boy speaks.

         “Well!” he says, and she can hear the discomfort in his voice as he steps away from where the scout’s body disappeared, “that was…pretty brutal.” At least he has eyes.

         He smiles anyways and Catra can see the strain it carries at the edges. “Thanks for your help, by the way. I don’t know what we would’ve done if they’d gotten the drop on us.”

         The princess glares at the boy for a second, crossing her arms. “We totally could’ve taken them, though.”

         “Right,” Catra places the knife in its sheathe, keeping the princess’s gaze, “because a squad of scouts who _totally_ didn’t have the drop on you were clearly too easy for you.”

         The princess’s cheeks color and she looks ready to snap back at Catra but the boy interrupts, hands help up placatingly. “Hey! Hey, let’s not fight with the nice lady who just took down three Horde soldiers that could have killed us.” He gives the princess a pointed look, and for a moment it appears she isn’t going to back down before she huffs, snorting air out of her nose.

         “Fine, thanks for helping us.” She says, looking away from Catra.

         Catra narrows her eyes in response, and the boy steps forward with a hand outstretched and a renewed eagerness in his smile.

         “I think we go off on the wrong foot,” he says, “I’m Bow, and this is Glimmer, and we’re very thankful for your help…?” He trails off. Oh, he expects her to tell them her name?

         She sniffs at his hand, arms crossed. “You shouldn’t be here.”’

         Incredibly, his smile doesn’t drop. But the princess steps forward now, stomping her foot. “The Whispering Woods is rebellion territory! If anyone shouldn’t be here its you, whoever you are!”

         Catra hisses, and Bow grabs the princess’s shoulder, “Hey now, remember what I said. Let’s not fight the nice lady.” And in a lower voice, which Catra can just barely hear, “and let’s not forgot why we’re here. Y’know, diplomatic mission. Looking for the spirits of the woods, who are two ladies, one of whom has _yellow and blue eyes_.”

         Glimmer cools, her expression tempering. “Yes, Bow, I get it.” She sighs, and rights her posture. She looks like she’s about to start some kind of speech when Catra decides she’s had enough.

         “I appreciate the routine,” she isn’t, and the expression the princess makes threatens to tug up the edges of her frown, “but unless you have a reason to stay in the woods, you should leave. The woods are not safe for you.”

         “Yeah, so we’ve noticed,” Bow says apologetically, “we’re just a little nervous. We haven’t really had the best luck with the whole diplomatic mission thing.”

         “However!” Glimmer says, “since we’ve found you, we can complete that mission and let you get back to, well, whatever you were doing before.”

         Great. “And what exactly _is_ your mission?”

         “On behalf of the kingdom of Bright Moon, we have come to offer our aid to the spirts of the Whispering Woods,” as she speaks, Bow moves to the side where their heavy pack was thrown during the attack and pulls out two cloth bundles of about the size of the princess’s head but no large than her ego that are tied with a bright blue thread, “as thanks for your assistance to our people over the last several months, the Queen asked us to personally see these gifts to you.”

         “What do you mean, ‘spirits’?”

         “That’s what the villager haves been calling you,” Bow explains, “well, you and that other lady. The tall one with the axe? People have seen you guys around after their things have been mysteriously fixed, and well, they figured that since people kept catching glimpses of two mysterious people in the woods that you must be some kind of benevolent spirits.”

         So, the villagers were clearly crazy. Nothing surprising there.

         Bow presents the bundles to Catra. She almost reaches out on reflex but stops short.

         “And what exactly is in this…gift.”

         “A little bit of bread, medicine, and a few things from the people in the villages nearby,” she picks them up as Bow explains, sniffing them before placing them in her pack, “most of these are offerings they wanted to make in thanks, but they weren’t sure how to get them to you. They asked us to take them with us, since we were coming out here to find you anyways.”

         “Well, you found me.” She says, stepping back from him, “so, mission accomplished. Are you going now?”

         “Well there was one last thing…” Bow starts, and Catra growls from behind her teeth.

         Glimmer steps forward again and the sparkles that dance around her hair form a crown of glittering stars.

         “As the eldest and only princess of Bright Moon, it is my responsibility to represent my people in the Princess Alliance. And as the only living residents of the Whispering Woods, we would like to extend to you our protection and an offer of membership.”

         “You want me to do what?” They had to be kidding right? She looks between them, the relaxed but confident Bow and the eager princess.

         Glimmer continues, gesturing with a hand to Catra, “Well, as a princess of the Whispering Woods, you would have as much opportunity as anyone to join the Princess Alliance.”

         “What did you just call me?” They can’t be serious.

         Glimmer raises an eye brow, “…A princess? I mean, you live out in the middle of the magical woods that no one but princesses can navigate? You’ve been credited with helping at least half the people bordering the woods? And the whole tree thing just now? That sounds like a princess to me.”

         Catra snarls, claws flexing, “I am _not_ a princess.”

         Both of them take a step back as Catra’s tail lashes angrily behind her. Bow sets a hand, on Glimmer’s shoulder and his eyes lock on the dark tips of Catra’s lengthening claws.

         “ _Okay_ , noted,” says the boy, holding up both of his hands, palms flat, “ _not a princess_.”

         Glimmer presses on, “Look, maybe you’re not a princess,” Catra hisses, “definitely not a princess, but you’re not with the Horde either. They’ve been trying to get through the Whispering Woods to get to us for years and they’re never going to stop until we end this war. If you join us, we will be that much closer to stopping them and then we can all live without the threat of them attacking us.”

         The offer has its merits. Behind the seething anger she has at being called a _princess_ of all things she can see her point. She and Adora are on borrowed time as it is. Shadow Weaver hasn’t found them yet, which is more a miracle than she dares ask for. But that wouldn’t last forever. The Horde would find a way to them, someday. And it would help them to have someone else in their corner when the time came.

         But like hell was she going to take hand-outs from _them_.

         “Look,” she says, voice quiet and angry, “we’ve been doing fine on our own. We don’t need princesses and we don’t need your alliance, either.”

         The princess bristles, and just when Catra thinks she’s about to fire back she goes calm, taking a deep breath.

         “Fine.” She says through clenched teeth, “but just know that Bright Moon and the Princess Alliance will ready to take you in if you change your mind.”

         Catra’s tail lashes against the snow behind her, “Are you going now?”

         The princess nods. She and the boy leave, and Bow leans in close as they get far enough away. She imagines him congratulating the sparkling girl on her reigning in her temper, and Catra would almost agree. She was half expecting the princess to explode, light up this whole are like a bomb full of sparkles and stars when she said no to her deal.

         She stays still, eyes locked on their position until they fade from view. In their absence, her mind is free to wander, and her thoughts center upon the memory of the scout she pinned to the tree. Her claws retract, slowly. The presence of the knife on her belt becomes heavier, and heavier. This was not like hunting. She knows what to expect from animals, from the complete cycle of the tracking, stalking, and killing to the skinning and preparing of game. It is a defined process. Necessary. And this is to. The Horde is her enemy, and they will not hesitate to kill her if she gives them the chance. But in this moment, she cannot help the way her tail lowers as the memory of her blade disappearing into the scout’s armor fills her mind. Catra feels the weight of it surround her like some ghostly visage, warping its hand around her throat and dripping blood between her finger tips.

         She comes back to a root poking at her ankle. She turns, and follows the root of the tree, which the woods bring out of the snow around her. An older tree, so she thinks, with dull brown and grey bark and large twisting branches. A knot on the face of the tree opens and twirls outwards, three twig-like appendages spiral together to form an arm that reaches out with four fingers to her, beckoning. She takes the offered hand, and the tree pulls her closer.

         More twigs sprout from the tree’s surface and before she has the chance to regret her choices, they grip her forearm and tug her tightly against the surface of the tree. She panics, scratching at the bark around her. Tighter and tighter the twigs bind her to the tree, until she can hardly move except to breathe. She yowls, teeth bared, and as she strains her neck away another twig comes up around her head, wrapping tight to her ears.

         And the she hears them, little whispers at the very edge of her hearing. She stills against the tree and all of the twigs fall limp at once. Besides the ones around her head, which shift around her ears. She can feel them caressing her inner ear, tickling the short fur inside before going still. She reaches up, and feels the petals of lowers blooming around her ears. She takes out the carving knife and looks at her reflection in the blade’s polish. Around her face, in a similar fashion to the mask she once wore, is an arrangement of twigs and white blossoms. Two flowers, white and vibrant with near luminescent petals sit at the base of her ears, and from them thin branches of smooth grey and brown wood frame the sides of her face. She reaches up with one hand, tracing the side of it as the whispers increase in volume.

         They are the woods. The Whispering Woods. They apologize for the abruptness of their actions, and she feels it like a wave around her, as if she is somehow connected to each tree. The crown they have given her, so they explain, is a way for them to communicate to her just as they have with Adora. It will only last so long as the flowers around her ears are in bloom, but can be gifted from any tree if she asks for it. She doesn’t speak aloud, but the woods seem to feel her questions as they form. They assure her, this gift was long coming. They were waiting for the right moment, conserving their energy for something they knew was inevitable, and that now was that very moment.

         Catra closes her eyes and they show her a clearing, far from her, with four crystal spires standing before a much larger one. In the clearing she can see Adora and Madame Razz, approaching the largest spire. Adora’s lips move as she touches something on the spire’s face and though she cannot hear her words she can feel the rush of fear from the woods as they do. Light flashes from the place where Adora’s hand makes contact and the face of the spire splits open. She watches the sword, in its true form, spark to life like a beacon at Adora’s side.

         And then the vision is over. She can feel the fear rippling through the woods like a wave. To her left, the snow shifts as the roots beneath shift, shoveling the snow away and opening a path. They urge her, and she can hear them distinctly now, the chorus of their unified voice broken into a cacophony of panicked voices, urging her to go after Adora.

         She runs, as fast as she can.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy. This was interesting to write. The three part narrative surrounding fate, inevitability, and the future of Catra and Adora in this setting will be wrapped up in the next part, Childhood Memories/Future Wishes. While it is in the Crystal Castle, I've put a spin on it based on the lore I've made around this setting. I look forward to seeing what y'all think of it.  
> sorry to keep y'all waiting so long. My thesis projects started last week and things have been a little hectic with the start of the semester and some weird pain in my thumb/wrist which kept me from writing for a while. by now I know the danger of attaching a date to when I'll update next, but look for it in the next couple of days or so.  
> copyedits for the previous chaps are in the process of uploading! i have all the way from 1-4 done. None of the substance of those chaps will be changed, but it should be a smoother read overall.  
> Last but not least, Thanks for all the Support!!!!! I appreciate it all so much! I try and wait to talk about my stories/respond to comments until they're complete cause I've been known to spoil things in my workshops, so I hope that doesn't come off as cold!  
> anyways, see y'all again soon.


	7. Vows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Future Wishes  
> Kept you waiting, huh?

Catra stumbles into the clearing just as the sun reaches the tree line. Horde training never covered distance running through the snow and she nearly collapses. Between tangling with the Horde scouts and her lack of regular training in the last few months, she is ill-equipped to handle the strain and now she is paying the price for her haste. Her lungs burn and she leans against the nearest tree for support. The whispers of the woods are still fresh in her ears, echoing. Their fear is ever present, shuddering like waves from the epicenter of their collective terror.  
The spires stand imposing before her, each covered in small white flowers connected by strings. Madame Razz waves to her as she starts to wind the last row of them. She waves back, not yet able to catch her breath, and walks towards the spires. She can see symbols upon their faces, even at a distance. Nonsense, all of them, and she can see where time has eaten away at the intricately crafted spirals and bars. She approaches the old woman, a question on her lips, when she hears the cracking of wood around her.

  
Like a drop of water in hot oil the cracks echo each other around the perimeter of the spires. The perfect circle of roots is broken as they stretch inwards, digging into the soil and from either side of the largest spire she sees the trees begin to move with speed unlike the woods. They chain themselves over each other, creaking and groaning with each movement, reaching the largest pillar in seconds and impacting the crystal with writhing hands. Their roots swarm over the surface of the crystal and fill the crevices and symbols as they seek purchase. The crease of the door Adora entered is found quickly, and before the eyes of Catra and the old woman the door to the temple is slowly, agonizingly forced open by the invasion of the woods.  
The two sides of the crystal doorway open nearly a foot and their surface cracks as the roots twist and shake. In her head, she can hear them wailing. The trees that stepped over line into the clearing are howling, maddened with pain and purpose as they tear at the crystal spire. The ones closest to the doors are the loudest, screeching as if hot iron was placed against their bark.

  
It’s too much.

  
“Stop it!” She cries, “I can fit through! Stop this!” But it is as if the trees cannot hear her. They continue to tear away at the door, their voices joined as the whole woods cries as one. She turns to Madame Razz, who is watching with wide eyes. The flowers she held have fallen, her hands slack at her sides.

  
“Oh, oh no,” the old woman says, “what are you doing? You know you cannot be here.” She walks forward, and the cries of the woods intensify as the doors give up another inch of space. One of the old woman’s wrinkled hands raises to the brush against the straining bark, petting it softly, “this is not your place. Hush now, go back.”

  
The trees resist for a moment, then soften their grasp at the old woman’s cooing, and slowly the roots begin to let go of the door. The crystal cracks in the absence of the roots, the two slabs have been pulled far out of their frames and now sit at odd angles. The single rune on their shared face is scared with deep track marks where the roots gripped it, leaving behind long scratches across the surface. As the trees recede, ushered away by the calm hands of Madame Razz, Catra steps towards the spire.

  
“What in the world is this place?” She wonders aloud, and the old woman returns to her side as the trees rejoin the woods.

  
“An old place,” says Madame Razz, “older, even, than me. Or them.” She gestures to the woods.

  
“They said this place was dangerous,” she starts, and the old woman shakes her head.

  
“They fear what they do not understand. This place is strong, with its own protections. A long time ago, when the heart of this woods was still young, they were tasked with the protection of this place. But none of the trees left can remember, and they only know of the pain it causes, and its many guardians.”  
Catra soaks in the information as she examines the hole the trees made. It is big enough for her to slip through, if a bit of a squeeze.

  
“But why are they afraid of Adora going in?” Catra asks.

  
Madame Razz smiles an ancient, tired smile. “It is their nature. This place holds the stories of who Mara will someday become. They know these, they have heard spoken in song.” She walks over to the flowers, picking up the string she dropped, “Mara’s path is marked by the burdens she bears. Perhaps that is what they fear?”

  
Catra frowns. As with every conversation with Madame Razz her words quickly go over the young woman’s head. Destiny. Burdens. What does that matter?

  
“So, they’re just spooked by some ghost stories? Seems kinda boring, to be honest.”

  
The old woman cackles, low and guttural, “Oh, I would not call them ghost stories. They are more.”

  
Catra furrows her brow, “Holy shit you just do not stop with the ominous phrasing, do you?”

  
The old woman just laughs in return. She turns to the baskets laying in the snow by one of the spires, and pulls out a couple of pieces of round, butter browned bread no larger than her palm. As she begins to nibble on one, she holds the other out to her.

  
“Come, take one. You’ve come a long way, and you won’t be leaving any time soon.” In the last few months she has not once seen nor smelt the old woman making bread, neither has she ever seen an oven to make bread with inside her hut.

  
She takes the bread with her claws. It is warm, and the scent of it is fresh. Her eyes flicker up to see Madame Razz is still staring at her, expectantly.  
“It’s good bread. And fresh.” If the old woman wanted to kill her, she probably would have done it by now. Suspiciously generated bread aside, the old woman hasn’t given her a reason to mistrust her before. She takes a bite from the bread. It is sweet, light, and fluffy on the inside. She can almost feel the sliding of honey upon her tongue as she swallows and warmth follows down her throat, into her stomach.

  
Catra enters the spire between the broken doors. It is a tight fit, and she has to pull off her pack and carry it in one hand to make it all the way through. The interior is dark enough that she would not be able to see without the faint pulse of red light coming from the floor. There are three triangular hallways, each set at an odd angle away from her. She looks into the hallways on either side to find them blocked up with crushed crystals and loose metal bracings. Beneath her boots, the light continues to pulse and in the center hallway she can see it echoing, flashes of it shooting down and back towards her like the splash of water within a bottle. She takes a step into the hallway, pensive.

  
She walks until she can no longer hear anything but the wet impacts of her boots upon the crystal floor and the deeper she goes the stranger the walls become. At first, she cannot see them for what they are, but as she walks, she notices the patterns they take, engravings weaving into and apart from each other like spider webs hanging from the ceiling. As the pulse of light passes over their shapes are revealed in a grand tapestry.

  
Further in, the carvings turn from language to form, creating pictures upon the wall. Catra traces one, depicting a cliff with fields stretching far into the distance behind it, swarming with rows and rows of soldiers wielding pikes and swords held into the air. And facing them with her back to the cliff is a woman with dark skin, long black curls flying high in the air and dressed in garments of white and gold. In her hand she holds high a shining beacon of light, filling the mural with its rays. With each pulse down the hallway part of that light stays in the woman’s hand. The glow is faint, but when she stops to squint at it she can see the details of what she carries; a sword, with a golden hilt and a bright blue jewel set into the center of the cross guard.

  
As she walks, there are more carvings like that and in each one there is a woman and a sword. The Sword. From weaving fields of wheat from the stems of flowers to facing down monsters spawned by hooded figures, the deeds of these women are lain before her. They are of all kinds, human and not, and their variance in appearance is matched by the diversity of their deeds. In the etchings she can recognize patterns, repeated shapes that appear throughout, always near the women. They are intricate, and after seeing it in so many places she begins to understand the reverence of its placement. It was important, likely a word, and it was clearly meant to be revered just as much as these women were. Probably a name of some kind, for the sword or the women that carry it.

  
The etchings lead her to the end of the hallway where dim light shines past the slab blocking half of the door way and the other is pushed just far enough into the wall for her to pass through.

  
Inside there is a large, almost circular room with a high ceiling. The pulses of light across the walls all converge at a dais in the very center. Her eyes almost begin to wander, but fixate upon the large mural covering the back wall. And upon Adora, standing beneath it.

  
The mural depicts a woman standing before a sea of bright points of light. The sword is in her right hand, held to the side with the blade facing out and her shoulders are locked forwards. Her clothes are white and gold with nothing to state their finery beyond the materials of their make. Bands of soft metal stretch across her arms and legs in the form of bracers and full plate on her chest. There is a glow to the mural that shines brighter with each pass of the pulsing light from the walls and fades into the points of light surrounding her. Where the woman’s face would be there is a void. The crystal there is shattered, surrounded by storm clouds. Below the mural, Adora’s back is to her and her broad shoulders are squared. The sword is in her hand, mirroring the woman in the mural and the brilliant blue glow of the blade blends the red walls into soft violet. Her normally tame blonde hair appears to feed off of the glow around her and billows as if it was being carried by a soft breeze. She turns as Catra begins to cross the room, her eyes glowing with an inner light that burns like a frozen flash of lightning.

“Catra,” Adora says and her name has never felt quite so out of place coming from Adora’s lips. The sound of it turns her stomach, and the warmth she felt from the old woman’s bread slips away from her. “What are you doing here?”

  
“What am I doing here? I am here because the woods told me that you were in here and they freaked out, Adora. They even gave me this,” she gestures to the woven crown upon her head, “just to make sure I understood.”

  
Adora turns fully to face her, face still as stone, “then they were scared for nothing. This place is not meant to harm us.”

  
Catra scoffs, “yeah, tell that to the woods. Adora, they screamed when they so much as touched this place. That doesn’t seem harmless to me.”

  
“They meddled where it wasn’t their place.”

  
“And what place is this, anyways?”

  
“A haven,” Adora turns back to the mural behind her and holds the sword’s light to it, “to keep our story safe.”

  
The light of the sword upon the mural reveals script at the bottom, curling and rising to twist around the points of light surrounding the woman. When Adora looks back to her she is framed completely by the violet light. Her face is dark, caught in the partial silhoute of the light and her eyes, two points of cold brilliance.  
“Our story is written into the very walls of this place and it….” In the dark her eyes drop to Catra’s sleeve. Still bloody, though dry. The sword drops to her side, and with it the glow fades from the blade.

  
Adora stumbles. Catra reaches out from across the room as if to catch her but Adora rights herself, rubbing at her temple with one hand. Her gaze is unsteady, for just a moment, but locks to Catra as she sets a determined pace across the room. Catra backs away, instinctually, and when she does Adora stops three paces from her. Still burning eyes scan her form, coming to rest on her face.

  
“You’re hurt,” she says, and the light flickers in her eyes, “how?”

  
Catra snorts, “It wasn’t a big deal, okay. I handled it.” She grips her belt to keep her hand steady but she can’t help the way she flinches away when she brushes against the knife’s handle.

  
Adora takes two steps towards her and again Catra takes a step back. Her pulse is rising. She can feel her heart thundering in her chest and her claws lengthening. Adora’s hair is resting on her shoulders now and her eyes are dulling back into a familiar pale blue.

  
“It doesn’t seem like nothing,” Adora shifts her weight forward, and Catra watches the sword begin to shift into an axe at her side. When she slides the newly formed axe into her belt, she takes another step and Catra barely stops herself by grinding her foot into the heel of her boot.

  
“Please, Catra.” At this distance, the warmth that Adora radiates makes itself known. Parts of it wrap around her arms, dancing across the muscles and only then does she realize how tightly wound they are. She breaths, heavily in and out. The shadows on the walls recede, just a little, as Adora herself begins to glow. Taking silence as permission, Adora closes the distance between them and takes one of Catra’s hands into her own, and the other comes to rub at the fuzz under her nose.

  
“You have dried blood all over you.”

  
“Yeah,” she says numbly. Her claws recede into their sheaths as Adora’s thumb rubs small circles into the back of her hand. Like a blanket, the warmth envelopes her, Adora’s proximity giving it free reign to pick at the sore spots on Catra’s body. She feels the knots in her muscles begin to loosen, the ache in her ribs soothes. She cannot meet Adora’s eyes but she can feel them, tracing her face as she cups her jaw with one hand.

  
“Will you tell me what happened?” Adora asks.

  
“It was…” she begins to say something, raises a hand to remove Adora’s hand from her jaw. But she stops. The shadows around them—lessened for the light that pulses through the walls but present—almost seem to shift at her words. They begin to lean in, closing around her as she begins to speak.

  
“It was…?” Adora parrots back.

  
Catra frowns, and grasps the wrist of the hand cupping her jaw. “I’ll tell you, but, not here.”

  
Adora’s brow furrows, “why not here?”

  
“I don’t…” she grips harder, “I just don’t want to say it here, okay?”

  
Adora’s hand drops and her frown deepens, but she seems to consider Catra’s words. When Catra, in an attempt to subtly check on the shadows, darts her eyes towards the darkest corner of the room Adora follows. As if for the first time, Adora scans the room. She lingers, in spots, the darkest ones that are dyed maroon by the color of the crystals within the spire and the light within them. Her eyes flash for a moment, brilliant blue once again, and her hand grips the handle of the axe tighter.

  
“I… I understand, Catra. We don’t have to stay.” She steps back, “but there’s one more thing I need to do before I leave.”

  
She walks to the mural again and takes out the axe. With one hand she holds it up, and the blade of the axe begins to glow. Under its glow parts of the mural come to life again, and the script begins to churn. Adora’s other hand crosses the length of the axe’s blade, and as Catra approaches she can see the metal reshaping itself under her touch.

  
“What is that?” Adora looks up at her.

  
“It’s, a story.” She says, and she places the axe in its cinch on her belt, “this woman in the mural’s name is Mara.”

  
“As in…?” Catra leads.

  
“The same, I think.” Adora responds. She finishes the transcription, and places the axe back onto her belt. “This places is connected to me, somehow. And I think Madame Razz knows how.”

  
Catra crosses her arms, starting back towards the hallway. “Yeah. She said some weird stuff earlier.”

  
Adora follows her, “What did she say?”

  
Catra shrugs, “Just some nonsense about destiny or something.”

  
Adora is quiet for bit, and they enter the hallway together. The light pulses around them, heading towards them now that she is walking outwards. It disorients Catra, but only a little. The more distance she puts between them and this place the better.

  
When they reach the mural of the woman on the cliff Adora stops for a moment, “this one.” she says, and she offers no further comment as she steps forward and runs her hand over the text near her.

  
Catra stops a few steps away, “What about it?”

  
Adora flattens her hand to the wall, next to the sword in the mural, “She was the first She Ra to hold the sword for Greyskull, protected the peoples from a blight of invaders from across the sea of stars.”

  
“She Ra?” Catra asks, and the word feels strange in her mouth. Small, but too big at the same time.

  
“It’s a title, I think. And a name.” she points to the intricate script Catra saw before, “its on all of the murals in here. Everyone who wields the sword, they are all She Ra.”

  
“Everyone?”

  
Adora’s eyes glow, “Everyone. We are She Ra.”

  
Adora blinks and the glow fades, but something else remains in its wake. Catra feels it between them, settling thickly across her shoulders and around her throat.

  
“What does that mean?” she asks.

  
Adora looks at her, and when she sees her back straighten and her heels move in as if they were about to click together in salute she knows its here. The moment, one she never wants to think about. It stays with her because it is everything beyond her control. Adora is a princess, from the moment she held the sword for the first time and became an eight-foot-tall goddess her fate was decided. In all of Catra’s life she has never once believed in fate, but no one just finds a magical sword in the middle of the woods. It’s inevitable, whatever this is, because this was always Adora. From the very first day she met her all Adora has ever wanted was a cause to stand for and people to protect. It made her an effective leader. And a horrible member of the Horde.

  
Now, now Catra can see it. The princess She Ra, a new cause.

  
“It means I have… I have something I need to do.” And there she goes.

  
“You need to?” Just that easily.

  
“I have to, Catra. I used to think that it was us who found the sword. But now, seeing all of this,” she sweeps her hand, gesturing up and down the hall around them, “I think it’s the other way around.”

  
“And why should that matter?” Catra says.

  
“Because I have a responsibility, Catra. As She Ra—” Catra growls and cuts her off.

  
“To who!” she spits, “to who do you have a responsibility? To the ‘people of Etheria’ give me a break, Adora.”

  
“This power—” Adora starts again.

  
“Is yours, yeah. But just because you can hurl around boulders with one arm doesn’t mean you have to become the savior of a people you’ve never even met!” She takes as step closer in the dark and her ears peeled back to her head as she hisses out her words.

  
Adora meets her step, “Catra, please listen to me—”

  
“No!” she says, “why should I? I listened to you when we came here and look where that got us. We would be both be Captains by now if you had just come back with me.”

  
Adora glares, hard. “Captains serving an evil cause, Catra.”

  
“An evil plan made because the people in charge suck,” she paces, starting to circle Adora, “which we could change if we were in control.”

  
“Catra, it doesn’t matter who is in charge the Horde is evil!” she counters, and begins to meet the pace of Catra’s lazy circling, “and that isn’t the point, if you would just listen to me I can explain.”

  
Catra huffs, “explain what? That you’re a princess and just because we found the one place with a bunch of other princesses who had the same sword means you have to fulfill some destiny?”

  
“This isn’t just about destiny, Catra.” Adora insists.

  
“Then what is it about, Adora. Because that’s all I’m hearing.”

  
Adora stops her in her tracks, planting herself firmly across from Catra with her back to the heart of the spire.

  
“This place, and the sword. I didn’t just get here by chance. The sword doesn’t just choose the first person to grab it to become the wielder. We’re connected, somehow, deeper than just our circumstances, and… If I follow it, if I can trace the sword back to the people it belongs to, I might find where I came from, before the Horde.”

  
Catra is silent. There was no before, in the Horde. Everyone starts young, young enough that any memory you had from before wouldn’t survive the endless drive of training you would endure for the rest of your life. Adora was brought in younger than Catra, but even then Catra barely remembers anything from outside the Horde.

  
“It’s my only chance, Catra. I can’t ignore it while it’s right in front of me.” She is pleading. In her life, Catra has never seen Adora plead, not even with Shadow Weaver. She reasons, she builds arguments. There’s always something behind her words, logic or leverage. But this is blind and passionate.

  
Catra wants to say no. But she can’t.

  
“How long then?” Adora’s head tilts at Catra’s words, the heavy tension of her stance thrown off, “How long until you leave?”

  
“Not until the end of winter. It isn’t safe to travel when it’s this cold,” Adora bites her lip, “and besides. I’m not leaving you behind.”

  
“Why not? I’ll just slow you down.” She glares at the mural on the wall next to her.

  
“You’re a princess now. You don’t need to slow yourself down for a commoner like me.”

  
“How can you say that?” Adora looks aghast, “this isn’t like that at all.”

  
“Isn’t it?” Catra turns herself full away from her, arms crossed and tail swishing in the air. “This was always going to happen, Adora. You found what you were looking for.”

  
“Which is?”

  
Catra rolls her eyes behind her eye lids and growls, “do I really have to spell it out for you? You’re a princess, and you’re right. People don’t just find magic swords in the woods. I knew that. I’ve known that from the moment we found it and you turned into her for the first time. That’s destiny or fate or whatever you want to call it and these stories just prove that, don’t they? You’ve got some kind of magic legacy to live up to now. I don’t fit in that.”

  
“You’re wrong,” Adora says, but Catra can hear it in her voice. Adora can try and deny it all she wants, but she knows its true.

  
“Am I?” she looks over her shoulder and points, “in which of these murals do you see a girl with ears and a tail like mine who doesn’t have a magic sword in her hands? None, Adora. I’ve seen all of them. There’s no room from anyone but She Ra in your story.”

  
“That isn’t what this is about Catra.”

  
“How isn’t it?” she can feel her eyes begin to sting as she speaks, “tell me, Adora, where could I ever fit into that? I’m not a princess, I don’t have magic powers or a destiny or any of that stuff, so how could I ever measure up? All our lives, we said we’d be doing all of this together. Everything. From being cadets to Force Captains we’re supposed to be equals. But I can’t be your equal if you’re a princess and I’m not. I don’t have anything, Adora! I’ve never had anything either. Except for you. And now, you’re leaving me behind.”

  
Catra spares a glance, and regrets it. Adora’s face is already a mess. Her cheeks are red and puffy, eyes glistening. Try as she might Catra can’t help but respond to it. Her ears are peeled back to her head, tail wrapped around her thigh. Its hurts for her to say, but she can’t stop this now. She’s said too much already, and with everything spilling out she can’t stop the tide.

  
She opens her mouth to continue, but she’s cut off by a whisper. Faint at first, just past her hearing, but then Adora repeats it.

  
“That isn’t what I want.” Her voice is thin, fragile against the tension. “I don’t want you in my shadow, Catra.”

  
“You don’t get to make that choice.”

  
“Why not?” she asks, earnestly.

  
“Because it doesn’t matter what we want.”

  
“Can’t it?” Adora says. She rubs at her eyes, brushing away the tears. “Why can’t we make what we want matter?”

  
“You’re being naïve.”

  
“So? What does that matter, when did that ever matter?” strength returns to her voice, a steady beat under a current, “there are a lot of things I have been blind to, Catra, I’ll admit that much. But I will never, ever give up on what we have. We promised to stay together and I mean to keep that promise because—” she stops. Catra watches her hands bunch up the fabric of her trousers. Her shoulders drawn high and tight.

  
“Because all I want…all I have ever wanted is you, Catra.” Plainly spoken. And yet, Catra cannot help but feel apprehensive, a ball of static in her chest shooting tingling bursts across her limbs. Part wants this. She wants what Adora’s saying to mean what she wants it to mean. And the other part waits. Waits for the words that will explain all of this want away as something else and she’ll be left to bury her feelings again.

  
“And there’s more,” Adora says, “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, because I shouldn’t feel this way. It feels like—like I want more. More than just to be close, to share our bed. But I don’t know how,” her hands grip her elbows, clasping over her stomach, “and I’ve been scared. Too scared to say anything because I don’t want to push you away. And I don’t want She Ra to do that either. Your more than just my friend, Catra, and I don’t ever want you to be second best. I want you with me, on equal grounds.”

  
The static in Catra’s chest spreads, shining, igniting her. Her hair stands on end. Her eyes are blown wide. Her tail, slow and steady, begins to swish through the air behind her.

  
“You…want me?” she says, testing the words.

  
“Uh, well, I do.” Adora blushes.

  
“How?” Catra demands.

  
“I don’t understand…” Catra takes a step closer to her.

  
“How do you want me, Adora?” Another.

  
“I, I want you with me?” Adora’s hands release her elbows. Fall to her waist.

  
“Just. With you?” she takes Adora’s hands into her own. Adora’s fingers are light, twitchy under her touch.

  
“I want more,” Adora says, low, suspended, “but I don’t know what that means.”

  
“Then let me show you.” Catra is terrified, but the words are there, now. The static in her chest is burning through her, exciting her endlessly where it passes between fear and exhilaration. She reaches up to Adora’s face, cups her between her hands and pulls her down. She can feel Adora’s skin on the pads of her fingers, slipping through her torn gloves. Her skin is alive, warm, partially buzzing, and it’s as if the static is leaping between them is sparking like a conduit.  
Catra feels the air on her lips, sucking past into a Adora’s mouth in a gasp as she presses herself to her. She is slow, resting for a second before pulling away. Adora breathes, “come back,” a pitiful whisper that makes her smile, giggling, and Catra throws her arms around Adora’s neck. Her legs lock around Adora’s waist and fumbles to hold her weight for a second before settling on her thighs. Catra holds Adora’s lips hungrily to her own and Adora is struggling to respond. Adora mimics her, pressing close, sucking her lower lip between her own, gasping when Catra takes back control and licks against her lips before pressing past them and into her mouth. Her hands rise from Adora’s neck and into her hair, knotting themselves deep and gripping the back of her head as she pulls her back, gaining purchase. Asserting control.

  
When they separate, Catra rests her forehead against Adora’s. In one arm Adora supports her weight and her other grips her waist. Adora’s lips are bruised, red and puffy, but she’s smiling wider and freer than any other smile Catra has ever seen from her. Catra’s face is much the same, but she cannot be sure how to feel. The knife’s handle digs into her gut, but the piercing reminder is lost in the wash of her emotions.

  
“That was amazing,” Adora says, her eyes caught in Catra’s. The other woman just purrs, loud, rumbling into the silent hallway.

  
“Can we…” Adora starts, and Catra indulges her. In time, Catra finds herself back on her feet, fingers entangled in Adora’s. She turns, making to lead them away but Adora tugs her back. Her eyes are sharp upon Catra, focused.

  
“I meant what I said earlier. I want you with me, always. As equals. It won’t just be my story, if they tell it. It will be ours.”

  
“Okay,” Catra says, “but if we’re chasing after your past, we’re doing it my way.”

  
Adora grins, “Of course. Lead on.”

  
They exit the spire to find that Madame Razz finished her work. They look for her, but she is gone, disappeared into the snow and the fading light. The flowers, chain upon chain of them, are glowing in the setting sun. Catra and Adora pass under them, the later ducking under the strands from where they droop. They look back only once upon the spire. The broken door, the ancient words covered in weaves made of clear white petals, hanging like droplets of snow.

  
Catra squeezes Adora’s hand once in her own. And then they turn, and walk home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to take some time to make sure this came out right, and that resulted in this part being almost 20 pages long. I wanted to do justice to the emotional situations and growth of the characters in this AU while also staying true to the insecurities they both have. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking around to read this all the way through. I'll be uploading some copyedits of the other chapters tonight, I just need to transcribe them into word since I do all of those on paper. 
> 
> If you want to come chat about She Ra, come find me on twitter @abrideofviolets. 
> 
> I have a few too many irons in the fire at school right now, since I'm a second semester college senior and working on a Thesis project, but I have a few more pieces in the works that I'm hoping to get uploaded before season 2 starts.  
> And if you liked this AU, you're in luck. This setting, with the way it re-imagines the woods, She Ra, and the state of Etheria, was actually tied to a fic I've been writing since I first saw the show back in November. It's timeline is very different from this one, and I wanted to use the challenge of the prompts as a way to flesh it out for myself, and test the waters of what worked and what didn't. Anyways, that fic will most likely be 80k or so, and won't start uploading until I've finished it. So probably sometime in the summer. 
> 
> That's all for now. Thanks for reading!


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